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Makemieland  Memorials; 


WITH 


Eastern    Shore    Wild    Flowers 
and    Other   Wild    Things 


REV.    L.    P.    BO  WEN,    D.   D., 

Author  of  "The  Days  of  Makemie,"  "The  Old  Preacher's  Story," 
"The  Daughter  of  the  Covenant,"  Etc. 


Whittet  &  Shepperson,  Printers, 
Richmond,  Va. 


CONTENTS. 


PROSE 

Page 

An  Appreciation,  by  J.   S.  McMaster,  Esq.,    5 

Dawn  and  Mid-Day,    55 

Makemie   Dedication,    9 

Postley  Dedication,    26 

Prophet  of  the  Bays,    43 

Rehoboth,   The   Mother   Church,    65 

POETRY 

Anne  of  Beverly 113 

Another  Family  Gathering,    142 

At  Evening  Time 20.3 

Black  Mammy's  Lullaby, 123 

Blue  Monday  Tabooed 164 

Clerical  Acrobats,   116 

Children  of  the  Evergreens,    134 

Carrie's   Pets,    145 

Dead  in  Dixie,    124 

De  Weddin',    192 

Eastern  Shore  Ferneries 87 

Eastern   Shore  in  the  West,    149 

Eastern  Shore  to  Her  Boys-,  172 

Foreword — At    Seventy-seven,    y^ 

Francis  Makemie 75 

Facing  the  Sunrise,    153 

Francis  to  Naomi,   169 

Grand  Epic — Redemption  of  Mother's   Lane, 184 

Hickory   Nuttin'   Days,    109 

In  that  Old  Pew 79 

Indian  Summer  Love 168 

In  the  Mirror,    200 


4  Contents. 

Page 

Methodism  Booming  in  Pocomoke — Nelson  Murray,  go 

My  Madonna 147 

Maryland  Venison,    162 

Makemie  to  Pierce  Bray,  173 

Mother's  Day,   176 

Mosquito   Isms,    179 

Makemie  on  His  Ear,   ' 198 

Naomi  to  Francis,  171 

Old  Rehoboth's  Home  Song,   88 

Old  George 106 

Old  Caroline no 

One  of  Her  Standbys,  136 

Our  Mother,    160 

Oysterdom  Antique  and  Modern 165 

Olympus  and  Eden,  194 

Pine   Shats,    130 

Pawpaw   Paradise,    133 

Rehoboth  to  Her  Kid,   84 

Song  of  the  Rehoboth  Volunteers,   112 

Shad!  !   193 

To  Our  John 82 

Tribute,  A,  To  Daniel  C.  Hudson,  92 

The  Last  Mosquito,  95 

The  Lady  Mary,   98 

The  Exile's  Song,   100 

The  Cool  Spring,   - 119 

The  Hymns  they  Loved,    127 

To  the  Elect  Ladies — Miss  Agness  and  Miss  Elizabeth,.  .  137 

The  Queen  of  Acchawmache 139 

Tramping  it, 156 

Voice  of  the  Pines, — To  Miss  S.  P.  B.,  of  Drummondtown,  107 
Voyage  on  the  Pocomoke  with  Home  Mission  Magmate,  . .  180 

William  Stevens 102 

We   Children,    118 

When  Ellen  Went  Away,  138 


AN   APPRECIATION. 


THROUGH  his  masterpiece  and  best  monument, 
"The  Days  of  Makemie,"  published  by  the  Pres- 
byterian Board  of  Publication  in  1885,  Dr.  Bowen 
created  a  new  interest  in  Rev.  Francis  Makemie,  the  chief 
founder  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  in  America,  and 
thereby  started  the  movement  which  resulted  in  the  erec- 
tion twenty-three  years  later (i903)of  the  splendid  granite 
monument  to  Makemie,  in  Accomac  County,  Virginia. 
Material  for  this  book  was  gathered  through  much  labor 
and  skill  from  many  original  sources  in  this  country  and 
abroad,  and  much  of  it  was  obtained  from  the  ancient 
court  records  of  the  lower  Eastern  Shore  counties  of 
Maryland  and  Virginia.  Dr.  Bowen  thus  acquired  at 
first  hands  an  intimate  knowledge  of  much  of  the  history 
of  these  parts  of  the  Eastern  Shore  during  the  days 
thereon  of  Makemie  (1683-1708),  and  so  greatly  did  it 
interest  him  and  seem  worth  while  that  he  also  then 
gathered  from  these  old  Eastern  Shore  records  and  else- 
where much  further  data  concerning  the  late  Colonial 
and  Revolutionary  War  period  (1708-1815)  which  he  has 
effectively  used  in  other  publications  and  more  of  which 
is  already  in  manuscript  and  could  yet  be  published  under 
some  title  as  "The  Blue  Bell  of  Rehoboth." 


6  M.VKEMIELAND     MEMORIALS 

After  his  researches  above,  made  when  he  was  pastor 
of  certain  of  the  Makemie  churches  in  that  part  of  the 
Eastern  Shore,  Dr.  Bowen  returned  to  pastoral  work  in 
the  West  and  far  South,  and  when  he  had  done  much  fur- 
ther ministerial  and  literary  work  there  and  was  retiring 
from  his  labors  and  enjoying  in  his  old  age  a  well-de- 
served rest,  was  recalled  in  1908  to  resume  his  work  in 
the  Old  Mother  Church  at  Rehoboth,  Maryland,  not  far 
from  the  Makemie  Monument.  Since  this  last  return  to 
the  Eastern  Shore,  he  delivered  in  1908  the  chief  ad- 
dress at  the  dedication  of  the  Makemie  Monument,  and 
also  in  1909  delivered  the  chief  address  at  the  dedica- 
tion in  the  upper  part  of  Worcester  County,  Maryland, 
of  a  Monument  to  Colonel  John  Postley,  the  first  to  leave 
a  permanent  endowment  fund  for  the  cause  of  public  edu- 
cation in  that  county.  Dr.  Bowen  has  of  late  in  addition 
to  these  two  notable  addresses,  written  sometimes  seri- 
ously but  more  often  for  his  own  amusement  and  that 
of  certain  of  his  friends,  many  verses  concerning  Make- 
mie and  his  early  churches  and  of  certain  people  and 
events  in  this  part  of  the  Eastern  Shore.  Many  of  these 
verses  have  been  published  in  the  newspapers. 

At  some  of  the  High  Schools  in  this  section  there 
have  been  lately  established  permanently  endowed  prizes 
known  as  "The  Old  Home  Prizes,"  given  each  year  to 
that  member  of  the  graduating  class  in  each  school  who 
writes  the  best  essay  on  some  topic  pertaining  to  the 
past,  present  or  future  of  the  Maryland,  Delaware  and 
Virginia   Peninsula,  commonly  known  as  "The  Eastern 


Makemieland    Memorials  7 

Shore,"  and  long  known  as  "The  Land  of  Gentlemen," 
and  the  lower  part  of  which  is  now  generally  known  as 
"The  Land  of  the  Evergreens."  These  essays  have  been 
well  received  and  are  filed  for  preservation  in  the  school 
libraries. 

Several  of  Dr.  Bowen's  friends  lately  suggested  to 
him  that  his  two  historical  addresses  above  and  some  of 
his  recent  verses  ought  to  be  published  in  permanent 
form,  as  a  further  addition  to  the  permanent  literature 
of  the  Eastern  Shore  and  as  an  aid  in  the  Old  Home 
Prize  idea.  Whilst  willing  that  the  above  addresses  in 
prose  be  thus  published,  he  objected  to  having  further 
published  any  of  his  verses,  declaring  that,  notwithstand- 
ing the  favorable  reception  they  had  already  generally 
received,  he  regarded  them  as  merely  playful  rhymes 
and  not  as  poetry ;  that  he  is  "a  poetaster  for  the  fun 
of  it." 

Notwithstanding  this  criticism  of  his  own  work  in 
verse  many  others  thought  differently  .and  believed  that 
much  good,  along  the  lines  above  suggested  and  as  show- 
ing a  further  appreciation  of  Dr.  Bowen,  will  be  accom- 
plished by  its  publication. 

In  "The  Days  of  Makemie"  we  see  Dr.  Bowen's  work 
in  his  prime  in  middle  life ;  in  this  latest  book  we  see 
him  in  his  hale  and  hearty  and  happy  old  age,  both  at 
serious  work  and  at  play,  and  in  all  we  see  him  always 
trying  in  this  and  other  ways  to  do  his  best  for  the  ad- 
vancement of  the  Kingdom  of  God  and  of  the  Eastern 
Shore,   his  beloved   native   section. 


8  Makemieland    Memorials 

It  is  our  sincere  wish  that  this  little  book  will  be 
received  by  the  public  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  writ- 
ten and  published  and  will  help  at  least  to  accomplish 
some  of  the  aims  above  indicated. 

The  Rev.  Littleton  Purnell  Bowen,  D.  D.,  its  author, 
is  affectionately  known  by  many  of  us  who  know  him 
as  "the  Grand  Old  Man  and  Poet  Laureate  of  Makemie- 
land," and  our  desire  is  to  continue  to  show  our  apprecia- 
tion of  him  while  he  is  living,  rather  than  to  reserve  most 
of  it  until  after  he  is  dead. 

John  Stevenson  McM aster. 

Jersey  City,  N.  J.,  June  I,   1910. 


■  I 


ERECTED  IH  GRATITUDE  TO  COO 


Makemie  Monument. 
Unveiled  on  May  14,  1908,  at  Holden's  Creek,  Accomack  County,  Virginia. 


Inscription  on   the  Monument: 

ERECTED  IN  GRATITUDE  TO  GOD 

And  in  grateful  remembrance  of  His  servant  and  minister 

3Frattria  ilakpmte, 

who  was  born  in  Ramelton,  County  Donegal,  Ireland,  A.  D. 
1658  (?),  was  educated  at  Glasgow  University,  Scotland,  and 
came  as  an  ordained  Evangelist  to  the  American  Colonies  A.  D. 
1683.  at  the  request  of  Col.  William  Stevens,  of  Rehoboth,  Mary- 
land. A  devoted  and  able  preacher  of  our  Lord's  Gospel,  he 
labored  faithfully  and  freely  for  twenty-five  years  in  Maryland, 
Virginia,  the  Barbadoes  and  elsewhere.  A  Christian  gentleman, 
an  enterprising  man  of  affairs,  a  public-spiritedi  citizen,  a  dis- 
tinguished advocate  of  Religious  Liberty,  for  which  he  suffered 
under  the  Governor  of  New  York,  he  is  especially  remembered  as 

THE    CHIEF    FOUNDER   OF   ORGANIZED   PRESBYTERY    IN    AMERICA, 

A.   D.    I706,   AND  AS  THE  FIRST   MODERATOR  OF  THE 

GENERAL   PRESBYTERY. 

He  died  at  his  home,  whose  site  is  nearby,  in  Accomack 
County,  Virginia,  in  the  summer  of  A.  D.  1708,  'and  was  buried 
in  his  family  cemetery,  located  on  this  spot,  now  recovered  from 
a  long  desecration  and'  dedicated  with  this  monument  to  his 
memory,  A.  D.  1908,  by  the  American  "Presbyterian  Historical 
Society."  seated  at  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania. 


Makemieland  Memorials. 


ADDRESS 


At  the  Dedication  of  the  Monument  to   Francis 

Makemie  on  Holden's  Creek,  Accomac 

County,  Virginia,  May  14,  1908. 

OVERLOOKING  thoughtful  Loch  Swilley,  the 
Lake  of  Shadows;  standing  by  the  picturesque 
windmill  at  Ramelton,  in  sight  of  Stewart  Castle 
and  the  old  Meeting  House,  its  roof  thatched  with 
heather  from  the  Donegal  hills ;  his  gaze  turned  westward 
in  the  track  of  the  explorers,  under  the  spell  of  Pisgah's 
visions  or  the  romantic  Scotch  second-sight ;  did  some 
Celtic  Moses  catch  glimpses  in  the  sun-setting  of  "A 
good  land,  a  land  of  brooks  of  water,  of  fountains  and 
depths  that  spring  out  of  the  valleys  and  the  hills ;  a  land 
of  wheat  and  barley  and  vines  and  figtrees  and  pome- 
granates ;  a  land  of  olive  oil  and  honey ;  a  land  where  they 
shall  eat  bread  without  scarceness  (and  clams  and  oysters 
and  canvas-backs  and  diamond-backs)  and  where  when 
they  have  eaten  and  are  full,  they  shall  bless  the  Lord 
for  the  good  land  He  had  given  them?" 

This  Presbyterian  Moses  of  250  years  ago,  was  he 
shown  from  the  Presbyterian  Nebo  the  new  Land  of 
Promise,  all  the  land  of  Giliad  unto  Dan  and  all  Naphtali 
and. the  land  of  Ephraim  and  Manasseh  and  all  the  land 
of  Judah  unto  the  utmost  sea  and  the  South;  and  there 


io  Makemieland    Memorials 

upon  the  frontiers  of  the  great  Canaan  Continent  did  he 
catch  the  unwanted  syllables,  Chingoteague,  Assateague, 
Pungoteague,  Watchapreague,  Matomkin,  Occahannock, 
Pocomoke,  Accomack,  Matchatank,  Chesapeake,  and  a 
hundred  more  reverberations  as  musical  as  Homer's? 

Turn  your  gaze  nearer  home,  rapt  seer.  There  close 
to  your  Mount  of  Vision  and  certainly  in  the  Divine 
Councils,  saw  you  the  blue-eyed,  fair-haired,  light-com- 
plexioned  strippling  who  is  thinking  of  America  too ; 
listening  to  the  Supernatural,  in  perilous  times ;  defying 
Bishop  and  cruel  Monarch,  and  ordained  by  Presbyterial 
hands  that  are  galled  with  chains?  Saw  you  that  young 
hero,  confering  not  with  flesh  and  blood,  turning  from 
home  and  the  loved,  challenging  the  mythical  wilderness, 
threading  the  dim  streams  on  his  sloop  Tabitha,  reining 
Pony  Button  through  gloomy  pines  and  the  cypress  jun- 
gles, ministering  to  the  scattered  elect  of  God,  planting 
an  organized  force  which  in  the  predestined  days  was 
to  illumine  forty-six  great  commonwealths ! 

Who  my  Donegal  Moses  was  I  cannot  tell  you,  un- 
less it  was  the  boy's  rugged  pastor  at  Ramelton,  true 
and  tried  old  Thomas  Drummond ;  he  whom  the  boy  at 
four  years  old  had  seen  ejected  from  the  pulpit  in  1661 
and  driven  forth  to  starve ;  whom  again  at  six  years  old 
in  1664  he  had  seen  arrested,  excommunicated  and  with 
three  other  godly  ministers  imprisoned  for  six  years  at 
Lifford.  Amid  scenes  like  these  young  Francis  grew 
and  came  to  Christ  in  his  teens.  He  knows  the  jeopardy 
he  is  to  face.  In  1675  he  departs  for  Glasgow  University 
during  Scotland's  bloody  "killing  time"  and  there  wit- 
nesses the  rage  of  the  persecutor  and  the  fidelity  of 
Scotia's  martvrs. 

When  in  1680  the  scarred  veteran  Drummond  vouches 


Makemieland    Memorials  i  i 

for  the  piety  and  backbone  of  the  youth  before  the  heroic 
Presbytery  of  Laggan,  we  would  love  to  fancy  the  proud 
pastor  enjoying  fond  visions  of  the  mission  and  achieve- 
ments of  the  young  probationer  in  the  days  to  come. 

I  have  a  fine  Calvinistic  thought  for  you  now.  Our 
story  is  a  story  of  the  Infinite  Ruler.  Persecutions  by 
the  Anglican  Church  are  raging,  yet  a  letter  written  by 
an  adherant  of  that  church  for  his  Presbyterian  neigh- 
bors brings  the  Founder  of  our  great  American  Presby- 
terianism  across  the  seas.  On  the  29th  of  December, 
1680,  that  letter  of  the  Colonial  Official  and  big-hearted 
Episcopalian  is  read  before  the  Presbytery  and  God  has 
young  Francis  there  to  hear!  What  were  his  dreams 
that   night  ? 

Brethren,  put  the  shoes  off  your  feet,  for  it  is  holy 
ground.  You  can  hardly  take  a  step  on  this  lower  Penin- 
sula without  touching  sacred  dust.  The  cattle  have  been 
herding  on  the  sepulchres  of  the  saints.  All  honor  to 
noble  William  Stevens !  Yonder  on  his  ancient  Rehoboth 
Plantation  patented  with  its  Bible  name  way  back  in  1665, 
his  name  upon  the  slab  still  legible,  that  model  Colonial 
officer  sleeps.  At  his  house  in  1672  the  great  English 
Quaker,  George  Fox,  preached.  The  same  year,  by  ap- 
pointment of  the  Grand  Jury,  with  its  Scotch  Presby- 
terian foreman,  David  Brown,  religious  services  were 
held  by  Robert  Maddux — whoever  he  was.  The  broad- 
minded  proprietor  welcomed  all  Christians.  And  there, 
in  that  centre,  the  Father  of  the  first  American  Presby- 
tery undoubtedly  first  landed  and  delivered  the  Inaugural. 

Was  that  sermon  on  the  text  from  which  he  had 
preached  before  his  Presbytery,  April  26,  1681  :  "Now 
the  end  of  the  commandment  is  charity  out  of  a  pure 
heart  and  of  a  good  conscience?"   1   Tim.  i.  5.     Or  was 


12  Makemieland    Memorials 

it  that  other  of  his  trial  sermons,  May  25th  of  the 
same  year,  from  Matt.  xi.  28:  "Come  unto  Me  all  ye 
that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden  and  I  will  give  yon  rest." 
Or  was  it  the  sermon  he  preached  at  Burt  April  2,  1682, 
the  last  mention  of  him  in  his  native  land,  from  Luke 
xiii.  3:  "I  tell  you  Nay,  but  except  ye  repent,  ye  shall 
all  likewise  perish?" 

In  ancient  days  a  strip  of  land  not  much  larger  than 
this  Peninsula  was  chosen  by  the  Supreme  Organizer 
as  the  Repositary  of  His  Oracles.  In  the  bloody  seven- 
teenth century  did  the  same  Sovereign  Manager  point  to 
the  retired  Eastern  Shore  as  the  rendezvous  of  the  Apos- 
tolic Doctrines?  Thus  our  contemplative  little  Pocomoke 
claimed  kinship  with  the  streams  of  Caledonia,  Ulster 
and  Palestine,  and  as  certainly  in  the  Divine  Counsels 
as  Gihon,  Pison,  Hiddekel  and  Euphrates. 

Was  the  expectant  Presbytery  of  Laggan  itself  upon 
the  Prophetic  Mount  and  looking  westward  while  young 
Francis  was  taking  his  vows,  giving  "Distinct  and  posi- 
tive answers  to  the  questions  usually  proposed  for  show- 
ing soundness  in  the  faith,  and  adhering  to  the  truth  pro- 
fessed in  the  Reformed  Churches  against  Popery,  Armin- 
ianism,  Prelacy,  Erastianism,  Independency,  and  what- 
ever else  is  contrary  to  sound  doctrine ;  and  also  a  reso- 
lution to  adhere  to  the  Covenant."  No  false  note  here, 
ye  loose-jointed.    True  grit  for  the  Western  Hemisphere ! 

Thus  equipped,  a  young  Theologue  of  twenty-five 
years  old,  to  pre-empt  the  Continent,  he  plants  the  blue 
banner  in  1683  upon  American  soil ;  here  where  the  quaint 
old  territories  with  their  sunny  coves  and  green  marshes 
and  white  beaches,  and  blue  skies  and  sylvan  nooks,  and 
old-fashioned  ways  and  reverence  for  the  fathers  should 
be  God  witnesses  forever.    I  hear  the  echo  of  the  ancient 


Makemieland    Memorials  13 

Scriptures :  "And  he  removed  thence  and  digged  another 
well,  and  he  called  the  name  of  it  Rehoboth,  and  he  said, 
For  now  the  Lord  hath  made  room  for  us  and  we  shall 
be  fruitful  in  the  land." — Gen.  xxvi.  22. 

From  the   Ezcks  and  the  Sitnahs 

In  the  European  land, 
Came  our   Presbyterian   fathers, 

Here  and  there  a  little  band  ; 
Where  the  welcomes  of  the  exiles 

And  the  water-lilies  bloom, 
They  are  yearning  for  the  Gospel — 

Fair  Rehoboth,  there  is  room ! 

There  the  sparkle  of  the  river 

Waits  and  watches  for  the  keel, 
Which  shall  bring  the  Giliad  balsams 

Sent  to  comfort  and  to  heal ; 
Oh  the  tidings,  joyous  tidings — 

Far  across  the  deep  they  come ; 
'Tis  the  youthful  blue-eyed  Herald — 

Glad  Rehoboth,  there  is  room ! 

i 

Yes,  he  comes  with  helmet  on  him 

And  with  Gospel  sandals  shod ; 
Our  Makemie,  brave  Makemie, 

Hail,  O  Messenger  of  God! 
Holy  Church  of  our  Redeemer 

Finding  here  congenial  home ; 
Blessed  little  virgin  village, 

Proud  Rehoboth,  there  is  room  ! 

And  two  centuries  and  a  quarter  afterwards,  for 
loyal  thinkers,  I  am  answering  historically  the  question, 
Who  was  this  Francis  Makemie,  dwelling  successively 
on  the  Matchatank,  at  Pocomoke  Town  or  Rehoboth,  and 
on  Holden's  Creek.  Amid  the  music  of  his  rivers  and 
the  traditions  of  his  forests,  why,  under  the  chivalrous 


14  Makemieland    Memorials 

leadership  of  Henry  McCook,  Emerson  Polk  and  John 
S.  McMaster,  are  we  dedicating  this  memorial,  tardy  and 
yet  timely  and  in  reverence,  here  to-day? 

i.  He  who  brought  the  Church  to  these  shores,  was 
a  qualified  witness-bearer;  he  zvas  a  man  of  God.  I 
emphasize  the  title,  for  so  was  Moses  and  so  was  Elijah 
and  so  was  David.  He  had  tested  the  jewel  he  brought. 
Friends  said,  Fling  away  your  manuscript  and  give  us 
one  of  your  rattling  talks.  But  I  meant  that  Makemie 
himself  should  be  the  foremost  speaker  here  to-day  and 
I  meant  to  emphasize  his  own  words.  Here  is  a  nugget 
of  autobiographical  gold :  "Ere  I  received  imposition  of 
hands  in  that  Scriptural  and  orderly  separation  into  my 
holy  and  ministerial  calling,  I  gave  inquiry  satisfaction 
to  godly,  learned  and  judicious  men  of  a  work  of  grace 
wrought  in  my  heart  at  fifteen  years  of  age,  by  and 
through  the  pains  of  a  godly  schoolmaster  who  used  no 
small  diligence  in  gaining  tender  souls  to  God's  service 
and  fear;  since  which  time,  to  the  glory  of  His  free 
grace  be  it  spoke,  I  have  had  the  sure  experiences  of  His 
infinite  and  unerring  wisdom  to  my  unspeakable  comfort." 
A  regenerate  boyhood,  a  consecrated  manhood.  To 
George  Keith's  flings  against  the  Sacraments,  he  thus 
out  of  his  own  heart's  elevations  magnifies  the  Lord's 
Supper :  "My  own  experiences  of  the  grace,  blessing  and 
benefits  of  this  great,  special  and  solemn  ordinance,  shall 
be  an  unanswerable  argument  to  me  against  all  heretics 
in  the  world."  There  like  the  Beloved  Disciple,  he  had 
leaned  upon  the  bosom  of  Jesus.  As  one  who  knew,  he 
declares  that  he  will  witness  "to  the  end  to  the  illumi- 
nating, sanctifying,  mortifying,  quickening,  operations  of 
the  Holy  Spirit  of  God  in  the  heart  of  every  believer,  in 


Makemieland    Memorials  15 

restoring  the   corrupted  soul   to  the   forfeited   image   of 
God." 

2.  He  was  an  educated  preacher;  not  a  novice;  a 
workman  that  needed  not  to  be  ashamed.  The  Univer- 
sity of  Glasgow  and  a  cultured  Presbytery  had  left  their 
stamp  upon  mind  and  mission.  Of  his  Church  he  rather 
boasts,  "They  are  highly  for  school  education,  and  learn- 
ing and  Academical  accomplishments."  He  interests 
himself  in  the  new  county  in  establishing  schools  and 
securing  better  privileges  for  the  young.  "The  advan- 
tages," he  says,  "of  early  instruction  is  witnessed  by 
experience  of  many  godly  of  all  ages."  Thus  he  testifies 
for  a  religious  education.  What  would  we  not  give  here 
to-day  for  one  copy  of  that  Catechism  which  he  com- 
posed and  scattered  over  these  shores  and  whose  tenets 
he  was  able  and  prompt  to  defend  against  all  assailants? 
Out  of  our  Eastrn  Shore  literary  gardens,  a  Presbyterian 
Catechism  was  the  first  blossom ! 

3.  Who  and  what  was  Francis  Makemie?  He  was 
a  Calvinist  through  and  through — as  erect  and  sturdy  as 
one  of  the  basaltic  columns  in  the  Giant's  Causeway  of  his 
native  Erin.  In  the  book,  "American  Presbyterianism," 
its  author,  in  trying  to  prove  that  our  planting  on  this 
continent  was  Broad  Church,  knew  that  he  must  get  the 
Apostle  of  the  Chesapeake  out  of  the  way.  Therefore 
he  adroitly  labors  to  minify  the  ability  and  influence  of 
our  Founder.  It  hardly  seems  ingenuous  in  the  writer. 
Who  corresponded  and  who  traveled  to  bring  together 
the  Mother  Presbytery?  Who  was  its  first  Moderator 
and  every  way  primus  inter  pares?  During  his  twenty- 
five  years  in  America,  who  came  even  to  his  shoulders? 
Dr.  Briggs  tries  to  overshadow  Makemie  with  William 


16  Makemieland    Memorials 

Trail,  but  William  Trail  was  less  than  six  years  in 
America  and  left  fifteen  years  before  the  Philadelphia 
Presbytery  was  organized.  Trail  was  a  noble  specimen 
of  the  true-blue,  living  for  five  years  just  below  Rehoboth 
and  one  of  her  jewels,  but  his  presence  on  this  continent 
was  utterly  forgotten  until  I  dug  his  name  and  plantation 
out  of  the  dusty  Somerset  Records.  And  then,  too, 
William  Trail  had  helped  to  train  Makemie  in  orthodoxy, 
ruggedest  Scotch  type.  There  is  no  comfort  for  the  lax 
either  in  Makemie  or  Trail.  Oh  no,  Dr.  Briggs,  the  type 
of  Calvinism  finding  its  habitat  here  was  as  blue  as  the 
bluebells  of  Scotland  and  as  adamantine  as  her  crags. 

So  we  hear  our  Pioneer  saying:  "Though  I  owe  not 
my  birth  to  that  kingdom,  yet  having  read  many  of  their 
books,  heard  several  of  their  ministers  for  several 
years  on  all  doctrines  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  hav- 
ing always  with  me  their  Confession  of  Faith  and  their 
Catechisms,  I  do  declare  myself  fully  of  their  sentiments 
in  this  (/.  e.}  election)  and  all  other  doctrines  of  faith; 
and,  in  God's  strength,  I  shall  never  swerve  nor  pre- 
varicate." He  calls  the  great  Genevan,  "Holy  Calvin." 
He  tells  us  that  in  his  Catechism  he  embodied:  "The 
judgment  of  all  my  brethren,  and  particularly  of  those 
of  the  Westminster  Assembly  both  in  the  Larger  and 
Shorter  Catechism."  Said  Lord  Cornburv  to  his  prisoner 
in  New  York :  "You  shall  not  spread  your  pernicious 
doctrine  here."  Straight  as  one  of  his  Holdeirs  Creek 
pines,  he  answers :  "xA.s  for  our  doctrines,  my  Lord,  we 
have  our  Confession  of  Faith  which  is  known  to  the 
Christian  world,  and  I  challenge  all  the  clergy  of  York 
to  show  us  any  false  or  pernicious  doctrine  therein !" 
There  he  stands !  Such  were  his  testimonies,  as  pure  as 
the  breath  of  the  myrtle,  as  invigorating  as  the  ozone  of 


Makemieland    Memorials  17 

the  seas.  And  like  their  Founder,  the  pulpits  of  this  lower 
Peninsula  have  never  swerved  nor  prevaricated !  At 
Onancock,  Drummondtown,  Bay  View,  Belle  Haven, 
Snow  Hill,  Pitt's  Creek,  Pocomoke,  Monokin,  Wicomico, 
Buckingham  and  Mother  Rehoboth,  John  Calvin  and  John 
Knox  and  Francis  Makemie  hold  the  fort ! 

4.  Who  and  what  was  he?  He  was  a  partner  in 
Paul's  tent-making,  a  man  of  affairs,  an  unique  man 
for  the  times.  He  refused  to  be  a  burden  upon  the  im- 
poverished colonists.  So  he  says,  perhaps  with  some 
pride,  "Whatever  others  have  done,  I  dare  affirm  I  never 
bargained  with  any  people  for  a  maintenance  and  oft  re- 
fused money  when  freely  offered."  Cornbury  writes 
pettishly  to  the  London  authorities:  "He  is  a  Jack-at- 
all  trades ;  he  is  a  preacher,  a  doctor  of  physic,  a  mer- 
chant, an  attorney,  a  counsellor  at  law,  and  which  is 
worst  of  all,  a  disturber  of  governments!"  Evidently 
one  functionary  of  government  was  disturbed ! 

In  1705  he  writes  to  Governor  Nott,  of  Virginia,  urg- 
ing measures  for  "Promoting  and  encouraging  education 
and  virtue,  checking  and  discountenancing  vice  or  im- 
morality in  all,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  by  the 
example  of  a  severe  and  virtuous  conversation  in  Gover- 
nors and  Counsellors;  and  promoting  a  reformation  of 
manners,  in  putting  all  our  penal  laws  in  due  execution, 
encouraging  strict  justice  in  all  of  our  judicatories,  and 
in  propagating  the  true  knowledge  of  the  Christian  re- 
ligion to  all  Pagans,  whether  Indians  or  Negroes ;  all  of 
which  has  been  lamentably  neglected."  This  was  probing 
to  the  roots.  To  his  inventory  of  Makemie's  avocations, 
Cornbury  might  have  added,  Statesman  ! 

At  first  the  careful  Pioneer  was  not  overcharmed 
with  the  Peninsula  wilderness.     The  persecuted  left  be- 


18  Makemieland    Memorials 

hind  were  expecting  to  hear  from  him  as  advance-guard. 
William  Trail  was  thinking  of  following.  In  1684  Make- 
mie  writes  back:  "My  friends  in  Ireland  I  design  to  be 
very  cautious  in  inviting  to  any  place  in  America  I  have 
yet  seen."  The  primitive  Eastern  Shore  and  the  smiles 
of  Naomi  Anderson  had  not  yet  had  time  to  get  in  their 
work.  Hear  him  in  1705,  "I  need  not  inform  you  what 
an  excellent  and  desirable  country  you  inhabit,  not  in- 
ferior to  any  Colonies  in  the  English  America ;  situate  in 
a  moderate  climate  and  Northern  latitude,  suitable  and 
agreeable  to  European  bodies ;  supplied  with  the  spacious 
Bay  of  Chesapeake  which  runs  through  and  divides  first 
Virginia,  next  Maryland,  about  eight  leagues  breadth ; 
capable  of  receiving  vast  fleets  of  ships  without  skillful 
pilots,  not  to  be  affrighted  with  dangerous  rocks  and  dis- 
mal sands ;  a  Bay  in  many  respects  not  to  be  outdone  by 
the  universe ;  having  so  many  large  and  spacious  rivers 
branching  on  both  sides,  and  each  of  these  rivers  richly 
supplied  and  subdivided  into  sundry  smaller  rivers, 
spreading  themselves  both  on  the  north  and  south  sides 
to  innumerable  coves,  admirably  carved  out  and  contrived 
by  the  Omnipotent  Creator  for  the  advantage  and  con- 
venience of  its  inhabitants ;  so  that  I  have  oft,  with  no 
small  admiration,  compared  the  many  rivers,  creeks  and 
rivulets  to  veins  in  human  hands."  Here  is  a  Political 
Economist  enthused !  Listen  again :  "Here  we  have  a 
clear  serene  air,  a  free  and  fertile  soil;  here  are  vast 
quantities  of  timber  for  shipping,  trade  and  architecture, 
our  country  being  generally  woody;  a  soil  suitable  for 
producing  anything  agreeable  for  a  Northern  latitude  and 
with  as  little  labor  as  any  place  in  the  world;  spacious 
a-id  flourishing  orchards,  replenished  with  fair  and  pleas- 
ant fruits."     Listen  again,  you  who  are  to  the  Manor 


Makemieland    Memorials  19 

born:  "Our  fishing  would  be  advanced  and  improved; 
our  vast  plenty  of  oysters  would  make  a  beneficial  trade, 
both  with  the  town  and  foreign  traders;  believing  that 
we  have  the  best  of  oysters  for  pickling  and  transpor- 
tation." I  quote  our  Founder's  fervor  about  the  bivalves 
to  bring  him  out  of  the  fogs  and  reveal  him  as  a  man 
of  flesh  and  blood  like  the  rest  of  us.  Naomi  Anderson 
and  the  climate  and  the  orchards  and  the  oysters  and 
his  two  little  Virginia  girls  and  the  planted  churches, 
have  gotten  in  their  work  and  he  becomes  a  typical  East- 
ern Shoreman. 

So  he  went  on  accumulating  land  and  pushing  his 
commercial  enterprises  and  cheering  the  prosperity  of  his 
neighbors  and  preaching  the  Gospel  from  Barbadoes  to 
Boston.  The  Bible  of  the  pulpit,  he  carried  into  trade. 
Hear  him:  "God  the  Eternal  and  Only  Wise  Law-giver 
has  formed  a  Law  every  way  quadrate  and  suited  to  our 
secular  interests."  The  Apostle  of  the  Chesapeake  knew 
how  to  harmonize  religion  and  dollars. 

5.  Who  and  what  was  Francis  Makemie?  He  was 
a  chivalrous  and  victorious  champion  of  religious  liberty. 
Our  St.  Patrick  was  to  have  his  own  tilt  with  the  snakes. 
Yes,  both  in  Virginia  and  Maryland  and  notably  in  New 
York.  Did  that  imaginary  Moses  of  the  Emerald  Isle 
foresee  the  Scotch-Irish  blood  peopling  America. with 
patriots,  unearthing  the  diamond  of  toleration  and  giving 
five  Presidents  to  a  vast  Republic  religiously  untram- 
meled?  When  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was 
ripening,  an  old  pamphlet  was  reprinted  to  help  in  arous- 
ing the  people :  "A  Narrative  of  a  New  and  Unusual  Im- 
prisonment of  Two  Presbyterian  Ministers ;  by  a  Learner 
of  Law  and  Lover  of  Liberty." 

Need  I  say  who  was  that  Learner  of  Law  and  Lover 


20  Makemieland    Memorials 

of  Liberty?  After  the  organization  of  the  Mother  Pres- 
bytery in  Philadelphia,  he  starts  for  Boston  and  tarries 
for  a  while  and  preaches  in  New  York.  Singularly,  that 
sermon  urges  obedience  to  Rulers,  but  for  that  sermon  he 
is  arrested,  brow-beaten  by  the  corrupt  Cornbury  and 
thrust  into  prison  for  six  weeks.  And  yet  it  is  a  fact 
that  there  was  no  Established  Church  in  that  Colony. 
Yet  an  obsequious  jury  indicts  him ;  he  challenges  trial 
and  can't  get  it ;  he  is  mulcted  for  expenses  and  released 
on  bail ;  the  trial  deferred  for  four  months  and  their  vic- 
tim 400  miles  from  home.  Undoubtedly  the  program 
is  to  worry  him  out  of  the  Dominion — with  no  dream 
that  he  will  return.  Ah !  Cornbury  does  not  yet  know 
his  Jack-at-all-trades. 

June  comes  and  Regulus  is  back  in  Carthage.  That 
blue-eyed,  fair-haired,  light-complexioned  Irishman  is  on 
his  mettle.  The  first  legal  battle  for  religious  freedom 
in  America  must  not  go  by  default.  Luther  again  faces 
the  Diet  of  Worms.  He  employs  counsel  but  largely 
conducts  his  own  defence — confusing  the  prosecutor,  puz- 
zling the  judge,  and  capturing  the  jury.  Acquitted,  he  is 
fleeced  again  for  $400  for  expenses.  He  pays  the  boodle, 
but  he  is  not  done.     Hear  him : 

"We  cannot,  we  dare  not  be  silent  at  this  juncture 
but  are  bound  to  let  both  Europe  and  America  know  the 
first  prosecution  Of  this  kind  that  ever  was  in  America, 
which  we  hope  from  the  merits  of  the  case,  manner  and 
proceeding  and  its  unsuccessfulness,  will  never  be  drawn 
into  precedent  in  our  quiet  and  peaceable  wilderness." 

Francis  knows  how  to  wield  the  pen,  and  that  Nar- 
rative exposes  the  Oppressor.  The  next  Legislature 
makes  another  such  prosecution  impossible  in  New  York. 
Cornbury    is    soon   displaced,    arrested    immediately    for 


Makemieland    Memorials  21 

debt,  and  the  profligate  spendthrift  and  patron  of  the 
Church  is  imprisoned  in  the  same  quarters  where  he  had 
locked  up  our  Founder.  Poetic  Justice  and  Divine! 
When  our  Coeur  de  Lion  got  back  to  Holden's  Creek, 
did  the  woods,  laurels  and  the  hollies  weave  a  chaplet  for 
his  crown,  and  did  the  seabreezes  breathe  prophecies  of 
the  days  of  '76? 

For  thereby  hangs  a  tale.  In  the  logical  aftertimes. 
Makemie's  surviving  daughter,  a  gray-haired  woman  of 
wealth  and  influence,  lives  on  through  the  days  of  battles, 
beset  by  British  gunboats,  no  patriot  stauncher  than  she — 
a  chip  of  the  old  block !  Who  ever  heard  of  a  Presby- 
terian Tory?  She  hears  the  last  guns  booming  over 
yonder  at  Yorktown,  triumphs  in  the  surrender  of  Corn- 
wallis,  and  sees  the  twin-brilliants  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty  polished  into  lasting  lustre.  The  Presbyterian 
General  Assembly  is  organized  the  year  she  dies.  Dying, 
she  bequeaths  her  Father's  broad  acres  pointedly  to  the 
friends  of  American  Independence.  Makemie  is  still  in 
the  saddle ! 

And  now,  all  hail,  Church  of  his  love — she  too  his 
daughter.  Look  around  you  and  walk  reverently.  See 
where  he  planned  his  Evangelistic  campaigns,  Ulysses  em- 
barking from  Ithica.  See,  for  here  he  dreamed  his 
dreams  of  great  States  and  General  Assemblies.  See 
where  he  wooed  his  bride  and  where  his  two  little  girls 
cooed  upon  his  bosom.  See  where  the  mourners  gathered 
and  in  yonder  vanished  brick  wall  laid  away  his  worn- 
out  body  only  fifty  years  old  to  its  repose.  "Committing 
my  body,"  so  he  wrote  one  April  day  200  years  ago — 
"committing  my  body  to  ye  dust,  decently  to  be  interred, 
and  my  immortal  soul  to  an  Almighty  and  Most  Merci- 
ful God  in  hopes  of  a  glorious  and  blessed  resurrection 
unto  eternal  salvation." 


22  MAKEMIELAND     MEMORIALS 

And  in  a  little  while  Bettie  the  first-born  came ;  then 
Naomi  the  beloved  wife  came;  and  far  down  the  century, 
very  old,  Anne  the  second-born  came,  and  they  are  all 
here! 

Who  then  is  left  to  care  for  the  grave  of  Makemie? 
Oh  desolate  Eastern  Shore  graveyards,  more  populous 
than  the  concourses  of  the  living ;  no  sighs  but  the  sighs 
of  the  pines,  no  wails  but  the  wails  of  the  Northeasters, 
no  watchers  but  the  angels ! 

"The   harp   that   once   through   Tara's   halls 
The  soul  of  Music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 
As  if  that  soul  were  fled." 

And  that  old  brick  enclosure,  built  to  protect  the  dead, 
crumbled ;  and  the  fragments  of  the  old  tombs  were  car- 
ried off  for  whetstones.  Like  the  burial-place  of  Israel's 
great  leader,  the  resting  place  of  another  leader  was  lost 
and  unknown. 

"O  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land, 

O  dark  Bethpeor's  hill, 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours 

And  teach  them  to  be  still ; 
God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 
He  hides  them  deep  like  the  quiet  sleep 

Of  him  we  loved  so  well !" 

But  there  came  the  sound  of  a  going  as  in  the  tops 
of  the  pine  trees.  The  heart  of  the  Church  was  yet  to 
turn  again  to  the  buried  sleepers  in  Accomack.  Did  I 
say  that  all  his  children  were  in  that  disintegrated  brick- 
wall  ?     Oh  no,  there  was   another  heir,   a  remembering 


Makemieland    Memorials  23 

Church,  and  her  loyal  heart  would  in  time  rebloom  and 
explorers  would  find  the  hidden  sepulchre.  Like  the 
woman  of  the  Parable  rejoicing  over  her  recovered 
dowry,  and  calling  together  her  neighbors  to  share  the 
sparkle  of  her  treasure,  so  Makemie's  real  heir  would 
here  celebrate  the  legacy  of  sacred  dust  re-discovered, 
and  would  dedicate  her  memorials  to  face  the  centuries 
like  the  faithful  Carins  and  Cromlechs  consecrated  in 
prehistoric  times  to  the  heroic  dead  in  Makemie's  native 
Erin. 

Far  down  the  quaint  old  Eastern  Shore, 

By  placid  Holden's  Creek, 
Where  glistens  shimmering  to  the  West 

The  sheen  of  Chesapeake ; 
Where  midst  the  brooding  silences 

And  flight  of  ocean-bird. 
Sometimes  the  voices  of  the  dead 

In  pensive  hours  are  heard, 
Here  underneath  God's  guardian  skies, 
The  grave  of  our  Makemie  lies. 

Where  worthies  of  the  vicinage 

Two  hundred  years  have  been, 
The  Taylors  and  the  Andersons, 

Our  Founder's  honored  kin  ; 
Where  blossoms  in  the  marshes  bear 

The  only  diadems; 
Where  osprey  and  kingfisher  chant 

Their  faithful  requiems ; 
Beside  the  accusing,  plaintive  wave, 
There  lay  the  desecrated  grave ! 

Far  back  in  dim  Colonial  times, 

One  tearful  April  day, 
A  dying  voice — "The  hour  is  come, 

The  hour  to  pass  away; 


24  Makemieland    Memorials 

Along  these  coasts  by  field  and  flood, 

In  heavy  cares  and  prayers, 
I've  fought  the  fight,  I've  kept  the  faith, 

Through  long,  laborious  years  ; 
This  weary  body,  weak,  infirm, 
Is  yielding  to  the  wind  and  storm. 

Not  on  the  hills  of  Donegal 

Where  boyhood's  footsteps  played, 
Where  father,  mother,  heart  to  heart, 

With   kindred   dust  are   laid, 
But   Erin's   exile   on   the   edge 

Of   this   vast   lonely   world, 
Where  first  our  Calvinistic  flag, 

These  venturous  hands  unfurl'd, 
I  give  my  bones  to  those  for  whom 
I  bring  the  Church  and  earn  a  tomb. 

"No   mausoleum   proud   I   crave 

To    mark   my   humble    rest ; 
Let  statesman  famed  or  warrior  bold 

Enjoy  their  laurel'd  crest ; 
A  lonely  herald  of  the  Cross, 

I  claim  no  fulsome  pall, 
But  just  a  little  quiet  nook 

And  decent  burial ; 
Here  where  my  pilgrim  feet  have  trod 
And  claimed  America  for  God. 

"When  I  am  gone,   I  see  the  Church 

In    prosperous    strides    expand, 
And  East  and  West  and  North  and  South 

Go  conquering  through  the  land ; 
Perhaps  to  children's  children  then 

The  story  shall  be  told, 
And  children's  children  thrill  and  warm 

To  sturdy  deeds  of  old; 
And  to  this  spot  turn  thoughtful   eyes 
Where  their  Makemie  slumbering  lies." 


Makemieland    Memorials  25 

Low  breezes  blow  from  Chesapeake 

And  moan  along  the  shore ; 
Sad  Holden's  Creek  has  ceased  to  sing 

Like  Tara's  harp  of  yore ; 
The  seabird's  dirges  interlude 

The  sighing  of  the  waves ; 
I  hear  the  cattle's  nightly  tread 

Sound  hollow  o'er  the  graves ; 
And  there  God's  Acre  dark,  forlorn, 
Awaits  the  Resurrection  morn. 

But  hark  !    Rehoboth's  bosom  throbs 

And  Memory  waves  her  wand  ; 
The  old  Peninsula  wakes  up 

And  neighboring  lands  respond; 
The  Church  is  stirred,  she  weaves  her  wreaths  ; 

Her  grateful  offspring  come ; 
They  clear  the  rubbish  from  the  years 

And  vindicate  the  tomb  ; 
Oblivion's  night  its  course  has  run, 
The  Resurrection  has  begun  ! 

Perhaps  some  Cambrian  Seer  foresaw, 

In  visions  far  away, 
Where  now  we  raise  with  reverent  hearts 

Our  Cromlech  here  to-day ; 
I  hear  the  Seer — "The  great  and  good 

Old  Time  cannot  destroy ; 
The  centuries  may  wave  and  fade, 

But   not   our  Ulster  boy ; 
While  stars  shall  gem  the  Western  sky, 
Makemie's  name  shall  never  die!" 


26  Makemieland    Memorials 


Message  of  the  Monument. 


Address  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Memorial  to  Col. 
John  Postley,  December  3,  1909. 

REVERENCE  for  the  noble  dead  is  ennobling  to 
the  living.  Our  dead  are  not  dead.  They  have 
only  left  the  Eastern  Shore  for  the  Eternal  Shore. 
When  we  become  oblivious  of  the  ascended  and  crowned, 
we  ourselves  are  the  corpses. 

I  am  a  loyal  Eastern  Shoreman.  Though  the  most 
of  my  years  have  been  spent  in  the  West  and  South,  yet 
there  has  never  been  an  hour  when  pride  and  affection 
ever  wavered  from  the  blue  skies  between  the  Bays.  The 
Land  of  the  Evergreens,  the  bowers  of  pine  and  holly 
and  laurel,  the  footprints  of  the  fathers,  followed  the 
untraveled  heart  and  refused  to  relinquish  their  proprie- 
torship in  the  Wanderer. 

Yet  I  have  two  or  three  little  quarrels  with  my  native 
heath.  I  remonstrate  modestly  with  the  old  Peninsula 
families  who  have  forfeited  their  genealogies  and  buried 
their  pedigrees.  Many  a  grand  man  and  woman  walked 
these  territories  and  their  blood  is  in  your  veins  and  you 
have  forgotten  them.  Yet  all  that  is  beautiful  in  this 
Land  of  Promise,  you  have  inherited. 

Another  little  quarrel.  I  remonstrate  with  the 
churches  which  have  slighted  and  thrown  away  their 
Records.  Where  are  the  priceless  Session  Books  of  the 
Makemie   churches,   gold   mines   of   historical   and   bio- 


Makemieland    Memorials  27 

graphical  wealth  if  they  could  be  resurrected?  What 
would  I  have  given  for  their  precious  pages  while  delving 
for  years  in  the  dust  and  dark,  striving  to  revive  the 
personality  of  our  Founder  and  his  contemporaries 
groping  in  the  fogs,  picking  up  a  jewel  here  and  there, 
all  his  churches  bankrupt  in  Records.  And  what  illum- 
inations your  own  Session  Book  of  a  century  ago,  if  now 
in  existence,  would  have  thrown  upon  John  Postley  and 
his  fellow  Elders  and  your  kinsmen  among  those  wor- 
shipers ! 

One  more  little  quarrel.  I  remonstrate  with  the  liv- 
ing for  the  neglect  of  the  accusing  graveyards.  Vener- 
able dormitories  of  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the  Eas- 
tern Shore,  we  are  not  worthy  of  you.  The  faithful  cedars 
cut  down,  the  sacred  soil  grubbed  and  ploughed  for  a  few 
nubbins  of  corn — so  sleep  my  grandparents  beneath  the 
tread  of  soulless  Vandals.  How  is  it  with  yours?  On 
the  original  Rehoboth  plantation,  harrowed  to  the  very 
edge  in  a  cultivated  field,  lies  the  flat  tombstone  of  Judge 
William  Stevens,  who  wrote  the  letter  which  brought 
Makemie  to  America — a  large  cemetary  there  once,  filled 
with  colonial  officials,  now  beneath  the  plough.  So  slept 
for  years  the  disregarded  dust  of  our  Founder  under  the 
filthy  accumulations  of  a  cattlepen.  And  for  generations 
the  great  American  Presbyterian  Church  made  no  sign. 
And  this  fair  Peninsula  which  he  preempted  for  the  Gos- 
pel condoned  the  sacrilege. 

But  there  is  a  light  along  the  horizon.  Makemie's 
fame  has  been  vindicated ;  that  cattle-pen  has  been  era- 
dicated, and  that  imposing  monument  on  picturesque 
Holden's  Creek  honors  the  living  as  well  as  the  dead. 
I  speak  of  that  because  so  to-day  the  name  of  John  Post-, 
ley  is  worthily  recalled  and  commemorated.  Another 
graveyard  has  been  rescued  and  declared  sacred. 


28  Makemieland    Memorials 

A  hundred  years  ago  the  good  man  was  worshiping 
down  in  the  ancient  brick  Buckingham  Church  wearing 
the  honors  of  the  Eldership.  For  God  had  said  through 
Paul,  "Let  the  Elders  that  rule  well  be  counted  worthv 
of  double  honor."  Nearly  a  hundred  years  ago(i8i5) 
he  went  to  his  eternal  reward ;  taking  his  place  around 
about  the  Throne  with  the  four  and  twenty  elders  clothed 
in  white  raiment  and  having  on  their  heads  crowns  of 
gold.  For  nearly  a  hundred  years  his  grave  has  been  un- 
marked and  unvisited.  Out  of  his  comfortable  means  he 
made  no  provision  for  marble  or  granite  to  guard  his 
dust.  Forgetful  of  self,  bestowing  his  goods  another 
way,  he  left  the  graves  of  himself  and  wife  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  forgetful.  But  we  are  remembering. 
There  is  life  in  the  old  land  yet ! 

i.  Gratitude  pleads  the  claim  of  our  dead.  We 
thank  God  for  Abraham  and  Isaac  and  Jacob,  for  Moses 
and  Isaiah  and  Paul.  The  dead  gave  us  the  Bible  and 
as  their  legacy  the  tidings  of  salvation.  And  our  Eastern 
Shore  has  her  own  patriarchs  and  prophets  and  apostles. 
All  that  is  best  in  us  came  by  descent.  Those  who  sailed 
from  amid  the  persecutions  of  Europe  and  patented  these 
farms,  patented  them  for  us.  Who  founded  our  churches, 
our  court  houses,  our  schools?  We  are  miserable  in- 
grates  if  we  ignore  our  indebtness  to  the  dead.  Thank 
God  for  our  fathers ! 

This  must  not  be  a  sectarian  speech.  An  Episcopa- 
lian father  gave  me  the  best  wife  in  the  world.  The  pastor 
of  this  church  is  so  pious  and  so  orthodox  and  has  never 
fallen  from  grace  because  he  married  a  good  Methodist. 
And  John  Postley  transcended  denominational  lines. 
But  I  am  compelled  to  think  of 'him  to-day  as  one  among 
the  benches  of  Presbyterian  elders  who  have  illustrated 


Makemieland    Memorials  29 

our  past  two  centuries.  Their  names  are  unheralded  on 
the  scrolls  of  fame.  The  Minutes  which  they  kept  of 
their  prayerful  proceedings  are  mouldered  and  gone. 

Noiselessly  they  watched  over  the  interests  of  Zion. 
Quietly  they  distributed  the  bread  and  wine  to  dead  gene- 
rations. Humbly  they  lived  and  as  ensamples  to  the 
fleck.  Imagination  points  to  the  dim  forms  and  gray 
heads  in  the  sanctuary.  So  they  worshiped  and  prayed 
and  passed.  They  are  in  these  scattered  graveyards. 
Who  can  call  the  roll  of  these  elders?  And  yet  what 
treasures  they  guarded  for  us.   Thank  God  for  our  dead ! 

To-day  we  take  one  name  from  the  legends.  I  can 
tell  you  but  little  about  him.  Would  you  like  to  know 
his  ancestry?  So  would  I.  Would  you  love  to  learn  from 
whom  he  inherited  his  noble  impulses?  So  would  I. 
Would  you  be  glad  to  be  told  how,  from  paternal  or 
maternal  line  he  breathed  in  his  goodness  to  the  needy? 
So  would  I.  For  us.  he  was  like  Melchisedek,  king  of 
Salem,  without  father  of  mother  or  beginning  of  days, 
and  without  posterity. 

But  he  sat  in  that  little  Session  Room  beneath  the 
venerable  oaks,  and  he  rode  back  and  forth  from  his 
country  home — thinking  about  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  the  poor.  Were  there  not  aspiring  young  natures  out 
upon  the  farms  and  in  homes  of  the  mechanics?  And 
so  John  Postley  in  hours  of  elevation  went  on  dreaming 
his  holy  dreams. 

Was  the  sunshine  that  fell  upon  his  pathway  a  pro- 
phecy of  the  sunshine  that  he  would  scatter  about  human 
destinies  after  he  was  gone ;  sunrise  upon  the  lives  of 
those  who  were  to  arise  and  call  him  blessed?  Do  I  cloak 
the  fact  to-day  that  I  was  one  of  his  beneficiaries?  Do  I 
blush  to  own  that  I  was  among  Postley's  "charity  schol- 


30  Makemieland    Memorials 

ars  ?"  No,  no ;  I  told  it  wherever  I  went  and  where  but 
for  me  the  name  of  John  Postley  would  never  have  been 
heard.  I  have  never  disguised  it — that  my  start  in  life, 
my  love  of  books,  my  literary  fads,  my  youthful  ambi- 
tions, and  the  little  success  I  have  attained,  were  all  due 
to  him.  I  am  proud  to  represent  here  at  this  time  his 
proteges — the  recipients  of  his  bounty.  I  am  proud  of 
my  church  because  two  hundred  years  ago  the  first  legacy 
ever  given  in  Maryland  to  the  cause  of  education  was  the 
devise  of  500  pounds  by  David  Brown,  a  pioneer  Eastern 
Shoreman  and  a  Presbyterian.  I  am  proud  of  Buck- 
ingham because  the  philanthropist  Postley  was  one 
of  her  officials.  It  does  us  all  good  to  praise  the  worthy 
dead.  And  thus  with  grateful  hearts,  among  the  tombs 
of  Eastern  Shoreman,  we  bring  our  spray  of  evergreen 
and  lay  it  reverently  upon  the  grave  of  John  Postley. 

2.  Fidelity  to  our  dead  fosters  an  admiration  for 
character  and  integrity  that  is  wholesome.  I  love  to  ad- 
mire people.  I  love  to  discover  and  cherish  beautiful 
manly  and  womanly  traits  and  characteristics.  I  enjoy 
purity  of  white  souls  as  I  enjoy  the  lilies.  I  delight  in 
brilliant  men  and  women  as  I  enjoy  the  brilliancy  of  the 
stars.  I  know  no  luxury  greater  than  the  luxury  of 
lovable  faces  and  lovable  dispositions  and  lovable  hearts. 
It  is  salutary  and  elevating  to  appreciate  good  people. 

And  along  the  years  what  galleries  we  may  gather  of 
such  portraits — the  faithful  and  winsome  and  true.  Many 
of  these  choice  ones  may  have  been  transferred  to  the 
Heavenly  corriders,  but  they  are  ours  still.  We  gaze  after 
them  and  revere.  There  they  are — the  unforgotten,  the 
admirable.  So  God  gathers  His  jewels — His  jewels  and 
ours ! 

Nobody  survives  to  describe  John  Postley.     His  con- 


Makemieland    Memorials  31 

temporaries  are  all  gone.  My  father  knew  him  but  he 
too  has  gone.  The  photographers  were  an  after  growth. 
My  fancy  shall  paint  him  as  an  ideal  Elder — the  plain, 
unassuming  farmer — a  lover  of  his  church,  of  his  pastor 
and  of  his  pastor's  boy— respectful  and  considerate  of  the 
poor — a  public-spirited  citizen — a  true  friend.  May  not 
our  hearts  picture  him  as  a  dignified  country  gentleman 
of  the  old-school — a  thoughtful  brow  with  lines  of  kind- 
liness— benevolent  eyes  tfiat  seemed  to  penetrate  the 
future — a  strong  but  attractive  face  with  the  light  of  the 
redeeme  1  about  it  ?  And  all  his  movements  and  demeanor 
seem  to  invite  confidence  and  reverence.  He  carries  him- 
self as  one  of  God's  solid,  substantial  peasantry. 

Yes,  I  know  that  this  is  a  dream  picture,  but  do  we 
not  find  its  outlines  standing  out  from  that  recorded  will ; 
his  providing  for  his  slaves — his  bequest  to  his  pastor's 
son — his  interest  in  the  redmen  of  the  forest — his  sym- 
pathy for  the  ambitions  *of  poor  men's  children  ?  What 
artist  could  produce  masterpiece  more  exquisite  ?  It  looks 
like  one  of  the  Bible  portraits  of  the  old  worthies  of 
Israel.  Oh  yes,  we  have  a  right  to  admire  our  dead. 
About  our  deeper  vision  thy  hover  like  the  armies  of  the 
Lord  over  the  hill  of  Dothan.  Fine  old  Col.  Postley — 
he  lives,  and  we  love  to  array  such  as  he  in  the  garniture 
of  Heaven. 

3.  Our  dead  live  as  a  perennial  inspiration.  Listen  to 
them.  Their  tones  are  like  the  still  small  voice  which 
Elijah  heard.  They  whisper  to  us  when  the  world  lulls. 
They  speak  to  us  from  the  Holy  of  Holies.  In  the  softer 
Eastern  Shore  breezes  are  they  not  audible  and  homelike? 
In  the  low  requiems  of  the  pines  do  not  the  graveyards 
talk  to  Us?  Oh  Eastern  Shore  lads,  Oh  Eastern  Shore 
lassies,    there    are    messages    for    you    from    these    quiet 


32  Makemieland    Memorials 

graves.  Yonder  sleepers  in  the  tomb  created  these  arenas 
of  usefulness  radiating  about  you.  They  built  the  step- 
ping-stones. 

Listen !  Hear  we  not  friendly  utterances  emerging 
from  Postley's  resting-place  ?  It  is  no  trouble  for  me  to 
believe  that  he  is  interested  in  us  still.  It  is  more  than 
eloquence.  I  seem  to  catch  in  impressive  cadences  the 
voice  of  the  departed,  saying: 

"Ye  young  people  of  Worcester,  there  is  a  bright 
future  for  the  aspiring.  These  minds  and  hearts  and  sus- 
ceptibilities of  yours  are  God-given  and  a  holy  trust. 
Your  motherly  Eastern  Shore  has  had  her  founders  and 
builders  and  they  have  wrought  out  for  you  a  delightful 
heritage.  Avenues  of  attainment  and  achievement  are  all 
around  you.  Between  the  two  Oceans  there  are  no  finer 
opportunities  than  here  between  the  two  Bays.  Our 
Makemie  foresaw  it  when  he  described  it  as  'a  country 
capable  of  superlative  improvement.'  We,  your  prede- 
cessors, claim  splendid  developments  from  our  successors. 
The  destitute  need  not  stay  destitute.  The  ignorant  need 
not  remain  ignorant.     Laurels  grow  in  your  groves. 

"Poor  boys  and  girls,"  the  voice  seem  to  say.  "are 
God's  favorites,  and  they  often  become  the  favorites  of 
their  generation.  Sons  and  daughters  of  humble  men 
have  outstripped  many  a  rival.  The  educated  poor  have 
attract;ve  chances  for  promotion.  There  were  no  high 
schools  free  to  everybody  in  my  day.  Now  the  doors  are 
flung  ajar  to  all.  The  old  Buckingham  academy  did  nota- 
ble work,  equipping  many  a  worthy  aspirant,  but  it  was  a 
grander  day  when  the  commonwealth  widened  its  wel- 
comes to  all  comers.  You  are  facing  magnificent  priv- 
iliges.  Hail,  ye  children  of  the  people !  Backbone  will 
reach  the  goal.  There  is  inspiration  all  along  the  line. 
I,  John  Postley,  salute  you !" 


Makemieland    Memorials  33 

Thus  do  not  we  hear  the  encouragements  fresh  from 
the  old  man's  lips?  The  whispers  of  the  dead  are  like  the 
Psalmist's  music  of  the  spheres — "There  is  no  speech  nor 
language  where  their  voice  is  not  heard." 

4.  Fidelity  to  our  dead  vivifies  the  anticipations  of 
meeting  them  again.  All  this  but  hastens  us  toward  the 
Resurrection.  The  angels  will  not  need  the  granite  or 
bronze  to  reveal  the  resting-places  of  the  saints  on  the 
Coronation  Morn.  God  will  know  where  the  long  line 
c  f  Buckingham  Elders  are  reposing.  When  the  last  trump 
sounds,  ears  long  soundless  shall  hear,  though  the  tassling 
corn  shall  have  waved  over  them  for  a  thousand  years. 

The  presbyters  of  the  Makemie  churches  will  form 
a  goodly  array  on  that  bright  day.  The  ancient  Sessional 
Records  may  be  lost  but  the  Lamb's  Book  of  Life  is  not 
lost.  I  wish  we  had  the  unbroken  list  of  the  Elders  of 
Rehoboth,  of  Pitt's  Creek,  of  Monokin,  of  Snow  Hill,  of 
Rockawalkin,  of  Wicomico,  of  Buckingham.  God  has  the 
list !  Among  them  was  many  a  staunch  head  and  heart, 
many  a  man  of  God,  straight  as  the  coast-pines,  rugged 
in  fibre  as  the  oaks  that  brave  the  northeasters.  Grand 
old  Eldership  that  guarded  the  altars  and  fenced  the 
vineyards  and  handed  down  our  patrimony  unimpaired! 

Erect  among  them,  distinctly  to-day  we  see  standing 
out  in  full  relief  the  form  of  our  Postley,  the  peer  of  them 
all,  typical  scion  of  a  Presbyterianism  which  has  always 
stood  for  Christian  education,  for  religious  culture.  So 
he  saw  the  boys  at  work  in  the  cornfields  and  the  girls 
at  work  in  the  their  kitchens.  He  thought  of  the  souls 
that  were  in  them.  He  longed  that  they  might  have  a 
square  deal.  He  saw  the  diamonds  in  the  rough.  He  " 
detected  the  sparkle  of  the  unquarried  gold.     He  would 


34  Makemieland    Memorials 

polish  God's  jewels.  He  would  give  the  caged  eagles 
wings. 

While  a  sincere  Presbyterian,  he  was  broad-guaged, 
His  benefactions  were  not  to  be  confined  to  his  own  de- 
nomination. He  aimed  at  a  fair  chance  for  the  worthy 
poor  of  all  churches.  Magnanimous  old  philanthrophist ! 
He  who  had  impartialy  distributed  the  bread  and  wine 
to  all  communicants,  would  as  freely  distribute  God's 
educational  gifts  to  all  the  ambitious.  He  was  the  har- 
binger of  our  beneficent  public  schools. 

We  are  proud  of  our  race  sometimes.  God  has  a  use 
for  noble  waymarks  in  the  plain  paths  of  life.  The  good 
alone  are  truly  great.  Why  did  not  some  Worcester 
county  boy  write  the  words  : 

"Lives   of  great  men  all   remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And  departing  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time." 

When  noble  hearts  and  generous  hearts  die,  that  is  not 
the  last  of  them.  These  are  the  immortals.  They  per- 
petuate themselves  in  the  lives  of  the  beneficiaries.  John 
Postley  survived  in  the  career  of  his  students.  And  then 
our  dead  are  waiting  for  us  in  the  deathless  land.  We 
expect  to  meet  them  and  tell  them  of  our  indebtedness 
Thank  God  for  our  dead !  I  wonder  if  Col.  Postley  knows 
what  we  are  doing  to-day ! 

Well,  we'll  see  him  some  day,  we  his  boys  and  girls, 
and  tell  him  of  the  seed  he  has  planted.  We  are  indirectly 
honoring  ourselves  when  we  honor  Heaven's  ordained 
agencies.  We  are  made  better  by  appreciating  the  fine 
old  characters  which  have  passed  across  our  horizion. 
This  is  the  voice  of  the  monuments.    They  are  the  land- 


Makemieland    Memorials  35 

marks  along  the  highway  to  the  Better  Land  while  we  try 
to  travel  in  the  track  in  which  our  fathers  went. 

Standing  by  the  Memorial  as  completed  and  trying 
to  interpret  John  Postley,  we  think  of  the  deceased  as  a 
child  of  the  Most  High  long  since  promoted ;  who  be- 
lieved in  and  illustrated  a  practical  Christianity ;  who, 
concerned  in  heart  for  the  good  of  others,  exhibited  gen- 
uine altruism  before  that  word  was  coined,  who  served 
well  his  own  generation  and  wrought  for  future  genera- 
tions. Being  dead  he  yet  speaketh,  and  once  more  we 
seem  to  hear  from  the  tomb  words  like  these : 

"Improve  yourselves  conscientiously  while  upon 
earth.  Cultivate  your  gifts.  Treasure  your  opportunities. 
Be  not  disheartened  by  poverty  and  privations.  If  you 
help  yourselves  manfully,  God  will  help  you  and  good 
men  will  help  you.  'Get  wisdom  and  with  all  they  get- 
ting get  understanding.'  Appreciate  your  schools ;  love 
your  church ;  love  your  country ;  love  your  God. 
Break  over  barriers  and  prove  your  mettle.  Ye 
sons  and  daughters  of  the  poor,  some  of  God's  prophets 
were  herdsmen  and  shepherds,  and  the  Saviour  of 
the  world  came  out  of  a  carpenter's  shop.  The  true 
education  touches  eternity.  Minds  and  hearts  properly 
trained  here  below  go  on  perfecting  forever.  Christianity 
educates.  Godly  culture  ennobles.  You  can  graduate 
form  the  schools  of  earth  into  the  University  of  the  skies. 
You  can  share  the  diplomas  of  Moses  and  Isaiah  and  Paul, 
and  of  the  sainted  dead  of  the  Eastern  Shore.  And  the 
gratitude  of  those  whom  we  have  benefitted  along  the  way 
will  not  detract  form  the  lustre  of  the  crown.  I,  John 
Postley,  the  old  farmer,  salute  you  !" 

5.  Our  dead  give  us  much  of  the  sweetest  poesy  of  life. 
Since  the  Muses  left  the  groves  of  Helicon,  I  know  no 


36  Makemieland    Memorials 

more  congenial  habitat  for  the  Sacred  Nine  than  along 
the  water-conrses  and  among  the  evergreens  of  the  Eas- 
tern Shore.  Where  shall  harp  and  lyre  find  richer  key- 
notes than  among  these  Peninsular  cemeteries?  Who 
of  all  earth's  singers  have  sung  the  highest  strains?  The 
dead  singers.  Who  of  earth's  bards  have  warbled  the 
sweetest?  The  dead  bards.  Go  stand  in  one  of  these 
sepulchral  solitudes  at  sunset  and  read  again  that  match- 
less, immortal  Elegy  of  Thomas  Gray.  Gray,  too,  is  long 
since  dead,  but  there  is  no  death  for  words  like  these. 

"The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day; 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea; 
The  Plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way- 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

"Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

"Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 
Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  voiceless  tenor  of  their  way." 

Our  Eastern  Shore  has  many  an  unwritten  poem  as 
perfect  as  that.  And  Buckingham  Academy  might  well 
have  nourished  some  native  Longfellow  to  sing  in  rythm 
like  this : 

"Ye  who  sometimes  in  your  rambles 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country 
Where  the  tangled  barberry  bushes 
Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 
Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses ; 
Pause  by  some  neglected  graveyard 
For  awhile  to  pause  and  ponder 
On  a  half-effaced  inscription 


Makemieland    Memorials  37 

Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter 
Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heartbreak, 
Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter." 

Such  strains  might  well  have  ripened  beneath  these 
skies,  for  your  poetic  Eastern  Shore  has  had  her  own 
Hiawathas  and  Minnehahas.  Do  we  not  sometimes  in 
the  twilight  catch  glimpses  of  the  phantom  canoes  gliding 
along  the  low  marshes,  or  perhaps  the  gray  smoke  of  the 
wigwams  curling  ghost-like  out  of  the  pine  dreamland? 
Where  is  King  Daniel  of  the  Pocomokes  and  Matchacoo- 
pah  ?  And  where  are  Queen  Weocomocomus  and  her  son 
Knusonum,  and  her  dusky  courtiers  Waspossan,  Tang- 
quatum,  Skifortum,  Young  Robin  and  Ringtaughton? 
A  few  dim  names  upon  the  yellow  court  records  and  that 
is  all — relics  of  the  more  than  ten  lost  tribes  of  the 
Eastern  Shore.  They  have  had  no  bard,  but  for  those 
walking  thoughtfully  above  their  dust  the  poesy  still  pul- 
sates in  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows.  Did  not  Col.  Post- 
ley  breathe  that  poesy  when  his  compassion  went  out  in 
his  will  for  the  ill-treated  aboriginies? 

Yes,  the  land  of  vacancies !  Where  are  the  honest 
Quaker  immigrants,  who  once  flocked  from  all  over  the 
broad  country  to  Judge  Stevens'  hospitable  plantation, 
there  side  by  side  with  the  Indians  to  listen  in  ecstacy  to 
to  the  great  English  mystic,  George  Fox;  sturdy  old 
broad-brims  who  expected  with  their  mysterious  Inner 
Light  to  supplant  Episcopacy,  Presbyterianism,  Makemie 
and  all  the  rest.  They  were  a  rugged  'sect,  but  with  the 
shadowy  sons  of  the  forest  they  too  faded  away  like  the 
fog-drift  of  the  morning  and  left  no  Homer  or  Milton  or 
Burns  or  Tennyson  to  adorn  the  story.    And  here  are  the 


38  Makemieland    Memorials 

gardens  of  pathos  again.  Down  the  Snow  Hill  road  you 
are  pointed  to  what  is  still  known  as  the  "Old  Quaker 
Burying  Ground" — not  a  slab,  not  an  inscription,  not  a 
name,  a  vague  tradition  and  that  is  all.  The  poesy  alone 
lingers  about  the  hill.  And  thus  too  for  a  hundred  years 
the  poetry  and  the  pathos  were  alone  left  to  distinguish 
the  spot  where  Postley  slumbers. 

Going  as  the  Redman  and  the  Quakers  went,  thus 
many  of  your  original  families,  once  prominent,  have 
passed  away  like  the  exhalations  floating  off  from  your 
romantic  streams ;  or,  shall  I  say  like  those  peerless  apple 
trees  under  which  our  childhood  played  and  luxuriated, 
the  Vandevers  and  the  Gricksons,  queens  of  the  orchards, 
yielding  to  baser  imported  breeds. 

Where  are  the  Ratcliffs — where  are  the  Prideaux — 
where  are  the  Tennants- — where  are  the  Rankinses — 
where  are  the  Newbolds — where  are  the  Brevards — 
where  are  the  Claytons — where  are  the  Foremans — 
where  are  the  Quintons —  where  are  the  Lucases — where 
are  the  Murrays — where  are  the  Bruffs — where  are  the 
Briddells — where  are  the  Ironshires — where  are  the 
Postleys  ?  Who  answers  to  the  roll-call  ?  So  Ossian 
sing?:  "Deep  is  the  sleep  of  the  dead;  low  is  their  pillow 
of  dust.  No  more  shall  he  hear  thy  voice ;  no  more  awake 
at  thy  call.  When  shall  it  be  morn  in  the  grave,  to  bid  the 
slumberer  awake?  Thou  hast  left  no  son."  "The  chiefs 
of  other  times  are  departed.  They  have  gone  without 
their  fame.  The  sons  of  future  years  shall  pass  away. 
Another  race  shall  arise.  The  people  are  like  the  waves 
of  ocean;  like  the  leaves  of  woody  Morven,  they  pass 
away  in  the  rustling  blast  and  other  leaves  lift  their  green 
heads  on  high." 

So  passed  the  Vikings  of   Scandinavia.     So  passed 


Makemieland    Memorials  39 

the  Druids  of  ancient  Britain.  Nay,  so  passed  the  Jef- 
fersons  and  Patrick  Henrys  and  Washingtons  of  Vir- 
ginia. "Your  fathers,  where  are  they;  and  the  prophets, 
do  they  live  forever?"  It  is  all  poesy.  Those  surviving 
slaves  of  the  old  master  who  ensured  them  homes  in  sight 
of  his  grave,  remained  for  awhile,  the  "old  Postley  ne- 
groes," and  then  too  those  sable  mourners  faded  out. 
And  that  too  was  poesy — such  as  the  troubadours  sang 
about  the  romantic  feudal  castles. 

Oh  yes,  for  the  thoughtful,  these  old-time  farms  are 
full  of  music  and  sentiment.  The  footprints  of  the 
fathers,  the  Land  of  the  Evergreens,  await  an  interpreter. 
Wanted — some  Peninsula  Theocritus  to  weave  indigenous 
Idyls  and  Pastorals.  Wanted — some  native  Virgil  to  put 
in  enduring  verse  our  Eastern  Shore  Georgics  and 
Bucolics.  No  child  of  his  own,  did  John  Postley  dream 
of  some  girl  or  boy  of  other  nurseries  to  rise  and  add 
lustre  to  the  land  of  our  birth? 


The  old  farm-house  is  very  still ; 
The  birds  may  sing  as  birdies  will ; 
But  there's  a  silence  in  the  rooms, 
No  children's  prattle  when  he  comes ; 
No   little   footsteps  on  the   floor, 
No   children's  greeting  at  the   door, 
And  there's  a  lack  of  childhood's  glee, 
And  there's  a  voiceless  vacancy. 

The  old  farm-house  is  very  still, 

Let  birdie-  sing  as  birdies  will; 

His  is  a  heart  just  made  to  move 

To    childhood's    joy    and    children's    love; 

To  other  groups  his  musing  runs ; 

Are  there  not  other  little  ones? 

The  vision   stirs  him  o'er  and  o'er — 

The  offspring  of  the   worthy  poor ! 


40  Makemieland    Memorials 

The  old  farm-house  is  very  still, 
Though  birdies  sing  as  birdies  will; 
No  little  prattlers  of  his  own, 
He'll   carry   light   like   morning  dawn 
To   lowly   homes   and   circumstance 
And  give  aspiring  poor  the  chance ; 
The  old  farm-house  is  very  still, 
And  birds  sang  on  as  birdies  will. 

It  has  been  said  that  God  left  George  Washington 
childless  that  the  nation  might  call  him  Father.  Was 
John  Postley's  nursery  left  tenantless  that  poor  men's 
sons  and  daughters  might  hail  him  as  Father — as  I  do 
tli is  day!  And  poesy  sighed  about  the  silent  hill — the 
old  Postley  graveyard — a  funeral  legend — and  that  was 
all.  And  the  green  pines  fell  and  the  brier-patch  was 
narrowing  up.  A  few  old-fashioned  jonquils  alone  re- 
mained faithful.  Not  a  tree  was  left  where  the  robins 
might  build  their  nests  and  sing  their  requiems. 

Oh,  the  epics  and  elegiacs  and  lyrics  and  threnodies 
of  the  Eastern  Shore  graveyards !  Ossian  might  well 
sing  here  again  his  songs  of  Morven.  Breathe  it  in — 
the  filial  poesy — for  it  is  humanizing  and  uplifting.  We 
need  relief  from  the  material,  the  selfish,  the  humdrum. 
We  need  our  dead!  They  make  Heaven  real  and  close. 
This  is  the  true  poetry  of  life — the  rhyming  together  of 
the  past  and  the  present  and  the  future.  That  will  of 
John  Postley  is  a  poem.  That  monument  dedicated  to- 
day  is  a  responsive  stanza  in  the  song.  Thus  the  soul 
gets  its  refinements  and  its  pinions! 

The  old  plantation  graveyards  where  lie  the  unmur- 
muring dead, 

Where  moved  the  slow  procession  and  the  sun- 
dered heartstrings  lied; 


Makemieland    Memorials  41 

Where  rose  the  supplications  and  the  hymns  of  love 

and  faith, 
And  preachers  talked  of  Heaven  and  the  triumph 

over  death. 

The    old    plantation    graveyards    beside    the    rural 

homes, 
Where  the  wounded  sat  at  eventide  and  viewed  the 

tranquil  tombs, 
And  thought  the  loved  ones  near  them  still  though 

lifted  to  the  skies, 
The  fellowship  of  kindred  souls  amid  the  silences. 

i 

The  old  plantation  graveyards  where,  in  the  soli- 
tudes, 

The  plaintive  spirit  of  past  days  still  like  a  presence 
broods, 

And  floats  about  the  scene  like  mist  that  lights  and 
disappears, 

The  friendships  of  the  fathers  and  the  loves  of  van- 
ished years. 

The  old  plantation  graveyards,  sometimes  a  place 
for  tears, 

The  watchers  gone,  the  walls  o'erthrown,  the  wreck- 
age of  the  years ; 

The  mould  and  'frost  and  mildew,  the  hillocks 
sunken  down, 

The  silence  of  forgetfulness,  the  cold  oblivion. 

The   old   plantation   graveyards   the   ov/ners   passed 

away, 
The  waving  wheat  and  silking  corn  in  our  ancestral 

day, 
And  then  the  tread  of  strangers,  where  low  the  coast 

wind  moans, 
The  plowshare  grating  ruthlessly  above  dishonored 

bones ! 


42  Makemieland    Memorials 

The  old  plantation  graveyards — it  cannot  hurt  the 

dead; 
The  hurt  is  to  the  living,  the  finer  instincts  fled ; 
The  voices  of  the  hoary  past,  the  treasuries  of  time, 
The  badge  of  immortality  and  of  sentiment  sublime ! 

The  old  plantation  graveyards — to  one  of  them  today 
We  come  with  bared  and  reverent  brow  and  there 

our  chaplet  lay; 
Dear    old    plantation    graveyard,    the    fields    where 

Postley  trod. 
And  planned  his  holy  charities  and  went  on  up  to 

God! 

And  this  is  the  message  of  the  monument. 


Makemieland    Memorials  43 


The  Prophet  of  the  Bays. 


A  Dream. 
I. 


IT  HAD  been  a  great,  great  day — there  on  Holden's 
Creek — that  happy  time  in  the  May  of  1908.  It  was 
a  day  of  consummations.  On  that  pensive  Neck 
o'  Land,  down  the  Virginia  way,  swarming  with  the 
phantasms  of  the  past  and  with  poesy,  never  had  there 
been  such  enthusiasm  witnessed  except — but  that  comes 
afterward. 

Thousands  had  been  gathered,  of  all  creeds  and  pedi- 
grees, to  share  in  the  late  honors  paid  by  a  Great  Church 
to  her  American  Founder,  deceased  two  hundred  years. 
Sacred  grounds  rescued  from  neglect  and  desecration, 
eloquent  speeches  made,  dim  history  resurrected,  the 
stately  fugue  of  Old  Hundred  mingled  with  the  as- 
tonished exclamations  of  the  ospreys  and  eagles,  there 
among  the  plaudits  of  the  multitude,  the  solemn  cere- 
monials of  dedication  had  been  completed.  Francis  Make- 
mie  had  come  to  his  own.  The  Eastern  Shore  had  re- 
newed her  youth. 

In  all  varieties  of  quaint  vehicles  and  afoot,  and  to 
all  points  of  the  compass,  the  dissolving  throngs  had 
faded  away;  and  the  solitude  was  left  to  the  dreaminess 
of  the  marshes  and  to  the  shimmering  of  the  waters  and 
the  flight  of  the  seabirds — and  to  just  two  others. 


44  Makemieland    Memorials 

There  on  the  ancient  burial  ground  stood  the  granite 
monument  surmounted  by  the  imposing  statue;  eyes 
raised  revently  to  the  Heavens,  the  Holy  Bible  in  one 
hand,  the  other  lifted  in  benediction.  That  benediction 
was  now  perpetuated  for  the  centuries.  The  Memorial 
faced  Old  Rehoboth,  ten  miles  away. 

"Your  young  men  shall  see  visions  and  your  old  men 
shall  dream  dreams."  Under  the  spell  of  that  raised 
hand  sat  another  figure  in  the  gloaming,  as  still  and  con- 
templative as  the  statue ;  a  white-haired  man  who  had 
been  dreaming  of  this  day  for  many  poetic  years.  Old 
Parson  Makemie  had  been  the  romance  of  his  boyhood; 
dimly  living  among  the  mists  like  the  Gods  and  Goddesses 
of  the  Academy  Classics.  The  vague  past  gripped  the 
young  imagination  more  and  more — old  Parson  Makemie, 
old  Parson  Makemie,  idealized,  vitalized,  etherialized. 
Why  not  some  Eastern  Shore  boy  disperse  the  shadows, 
illumine  the  oblivion,  bring  the  faded  personality  out  of 
the  forgotten  grave,  rehabilitate  the  Apocryphal  hero, 
and  give  the  Eastern  Shore  his  fame ! 

Now,  the  only  lingering  companion  of  that  impressive 
statue,  there  sat  the  old  man,  whether  in  the  body  he 
could  not  tell  or  whether  out  of  the  body  he  could  not 
tell.  The  only  motion  is  once  when  he  seems  cpiietly  to 
brush  his  garments.  Is  he  thinking  of  the  long  re- 
searches and  the  dust  of  the  ancient  Court  Records  which 
he  had  courted  and  breathed  through  so  many  persistent 
years — picking  up  here  and  there  a  bonanza.  For  now 
and  then  that  dust  with  its  microbes  had  been  richer 
than  gold-dust  from  the  mines ! 

And  now  this  Old  Mortality  of  the  Land  of  the  Ever- 
greens, and  the  picturesque  statue,  had  the  ghosts  of  Hol- 
den's  Creek  all  to  themselves  in  the  solitude,  and  dim 
forms  came  and  went. 


Makemieland    Memorials  45 

II. 

Two  young  maidens,  lithe  and  airy,  their  arms  en- 
twined, come  out  from  the  primitive  Colonial  home  and 
take  their  seats  under  the  cedars  near  the  brink  of  the 
stream.  It  was  far  away  in  the  shadowy  Sixteen-Nineties, 
the  sparse  settlers  widely  scattered,  and  the  two  sisters 
were  oftentimes  lonely.  Around  them  and  pressing  close 
was  the  great  wilderness  of  the  Evergreens.  These  two 
had  been  the  old  plodder's  sweethearts  during  the  years  of 
his  researches. 

Naomi  and  Comfort  were  a  goodly  pair,  their  names 
hinting  of  Puritan  strains  somewhere — Pleasantness  and 
Cheer.  And  they  were  fresh  and  winsome,  flesh  and 
blood  abloom,  for  had  not  the  Virgin  Colony  the  fair- 
cheeked  and  bright-eyed  and  rich-toned  lassies  all  the 
way  down  from  Pocahontas'  days?  The  beautiful  and 
romantic  did  not  tarry  for  the  rattle  of  steam  and  the 
glare  of  electric  lights.  Pretty  maidens  played  with  hearts 
in  the  mellow  haze  of  tallow-dips  sweetened  with  the 
odors  of  the  myrtle.  You  moderns  have  no  corner  on  the 
fascinations ! 

Naomi's  eyes  are  turned  toward  the  jeweled  bosom 
of  Pocomoke  Sound,  following  the  windings  of  the 
Creek,  and  as  far-sighted  as  the  fish-hawks.  Good  King 
William  and  his  noble  Queen  are  upon  the  Throne,  and 
the  "killing-time"  in  the  Old  County  has  paused ;  but  there 
are  pirates  upon  the  coast  and  Sloop  Tabitha  may  yet  be 
caught  on  her  voyages  to  Barbadoes.  What  care  the 
Bitccaniers  for  Cupid!  Then  Comfort  teased  her  sister, 
for  girls  have  had  tantalizing  ways  even  from  of  old, 
and  the  younger  sister  said : 

"Naomi,  your  Hebrew  name  has  a  pleasing  synonym, 


46  Makemieland    Memorials 

but  methinks  that  the  bearer  of  it  is  not  very  companion- 
able on  this  quiet  eve..  The  sparkle  is  absent  from  your 
eyes  and  the  sea-fogs  seem  to  have  shrouded  your  counte- 
nance. I  fear  that  you  are  overstraining  your  optics ! 
Shall  I  bring  you  the  spy-glass  which  a  certain  young 
Missionary  sailor  left  in  your  keeping?" 

And  then  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "Oh,  Naomi, 
Naomi,  pleasant  enough  now,  the  fogs  have  vanished 
from  your  pretty  face  and  it  beams  like  a  sunburst  on 
the  Chesapeake !  I  see — I  see — it  is  the  white  sail  in  the 
bends !" 

Gracefuly  the  little  sloop  tacks  and  jibes  and  winds 
her  way  around  the  curves  like  a  seagull  seeking  its 
nest. 

"I  shall  not  be  wanted  in  the  tryst,"  said  Comfort 
and  turned  to  the  house.  "A  second  cook  is  not  needed 
for  the  broth !" 

"Stay,  stay,"  pleaded  the  older,  as  girls  always  do. 
They  never  mean  it. 

The  boat  seems  to  know  the  channel  and  has  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  the  Anderson  mooring-grounds.  The 
young  Ulster  boy,  of  the  blue  eyes,  his  rich  complexion 
somewhat  browned  with  the  Trophic  suns,  brings  not  for 
the  first  time  the  Southern  fruits  and  the  corals,  and  is 
soon  seated  by  her  side — here  where  Old  Hundred 
sounded  to-day. 

Of  course  like  Shakespeare's  hero,  young  Francis  re- 
cites his  adventures  upon  the  deep,  and  tells  of  her  eyes 
being  the  stars,  her  fair  face  the  cynosure,  that  guided 
him  from  the  Indies.  Oh  these  Preachers !  That  Bible 
in  the  hand  of  the  statue  says  there  is  nothing  new  under 
the  sun. 

"But,  Francis,"  she  asks,  "there  among  the  romantic 


Makemieland    Memorials  47 

islands  and  poetic  orange  groves,  saw  you  not  many  a 
Spanish  maiden  very  beautiful  and  with  black  eyes  out- 
shining Naomi's?" 

How  modern  it  all  sounds !  Oh  these  Eastern  Shore 
girls !  And  then,  Francis,  Oh  Francis,  you  vowed  that 
there  never  were  such  eyes  as  hers — never — and  the  kill- 
dees  and  knee-deeps  and  black  birds  heard  you  swear  it. 

Then  Francis  told  her  of  his  next  voyage.  Were  not 
these  trading  trips  to  relieve  the  poor  Colonists  from  the 
burden  of  his  support  ?  Sloop  Tabitha  was  his  Deaconess. 

"The  English  and  Irish  and  Scotch  and  Huguenot 
refugees,"  he  said,  "are  hungering  for  the  Gospel  manna 
and  impatient  for  the  white-sail.  The  Pocomoke  and 
Annamessex  and  Monokin  and  Wicomico  are  to  become 
streams  of  gladness  whose  life-giving  currents  are  to  flow 
abroad  and  fertilize  the  continent." 

Then  the  dear  girl,  just  like  the  girls,  asks  again,  "And 
is  there  not  some  Presbyterian  fairy,  up  at  your  favorite 
Rehoboth  or  at  Snow  Hill  or  on  the  banks  of  the  other 
Jordans  or  Kidrons — some  Bray  or  King  or  Dryden  or 
Spence— whose  pulse  beats  quicker  when  you  come,  who 
thinks  of  other  sweets  besides  the  Gospel  manna,  and 
whose  river-charms  may  win  you  from  Holden's  Creek?" 

So  it  has  been  and  will  be.  We  old  folks  see  the 
symptoms  all  around  us.  There  are  other  Evergreens 
besides  the  pines.  As  the  dream  runs  on,  there  seem  to 
be  pulsating  veins  in  that  statue  on  the  Monument. 

This  brought  the  crisis  and  Francis  said :  "This  hill 
is  Padan  Aram  and  here  Isaac  has  traced  his  shepherdess. 
Ere  another  voyage,  why  not  now  the  holy  time  when 
the  magnet  becomes  my  own,  the  loneliness  of  the  son 
of  Donegal  ended,  a  wedded  home  for  two,  and  mine  in- 
deed the  wild-rose  of  the  wilderness !     Your   Father  is 


48  Makemieland    Memorials 

our  honored  Magistrate  and  why  delay  the  banns?  Thus 
let  the  Eastern  Shore  weave  bridal  wreaths  from  her 
Evergreens !" 

Then  from  the  Holy  Book  up  there  on  the  Monu- 
ment comes  the  poem,  "The  wilderness  and  the  solitary 
place  shall  be  glad  for  them;  and  the  desert  shall  rejoice 
and  blossom  as  the  rose !" 

III. 

An  interval,  and  there  was  a  shifting  of  scenes  as 
by  some  stagemanager  unseen.  The  yellow  documents 
and  hazy  legends  of  the  old  man's  zealous  investigations 
were  like  things  that  live.  Past  and  present  merged. 
The  Monument  was  alive. 

That  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  voyager  has  grown  older, 
old  beyond  his  years.  With  camlet  cloak  and  Boston 
cane,  the  tired  Crusader  is  back  from  the  Wars  and  is 
resting  on  this  memorial  hill  with  two  little  girls  at  his 
side.  These  little  girls  are  to  be  the  links  that  bind  him 
to  the  Eastern  Shore  cradles  forever ! 

"Tell  us  all  about  it,"  said  thoughtful  Elizabeth ;  "did 
they  treat  you  badly,  Papa  ?" 

"Who  dares  to  treat  Papa  badly?"  retorted  spirited 
Anne;  "just  the  best  Papa  in  the  world!  I'd  stick  them 
with  my  needle!" 

They  amused  and  rested  him.  He  answered,  "There 
are  people  who  do  not  like  your  Father  as  well  as  his  little 
daughters  do.  And  they  don't  want  him  to  preach." 

"You  are  the  dearest,  smartest,  sweetest  preacher  that 
ever  was !"  asserted  Elizabeth.  "On  next  Sunday  all  our 
neighbors  will  flock  to  this  hill  to  hear  you.  Even  the 
white  gulls  will  pause  and  listen !" 


Makemieland    Memorials  49 

"If  anybody  tries  to  choke  Papa  off  from  preaching, 
I'll  throw  them  in  the  Creek,"  fulminated  belligerant 
Anne. 

Father  smiles  at  the  budding  chivalry.  He  did  not 
know  that  ere  two  years  were  gone,  he  and  Elizabeth 
would  be  sleeping  side  by  side  under  the  sod  upon  this 
hill — binding  him  to  all  Eastern  Shore  little  graves.  Nor 
did  he  know  what  a  Rebel  the  younger  sister  is  to  be 
before  the  century  closes ! 

"It  is  this  way,  my  Girlies,"  the  Father  explains.  "For 
many  dark  years  the  powers  in  bleeding  Europe  tried  to 
compel  everybody  to  believe  and  worship  as  the  rulers 
dictated.  Church  and  State  were  in  an  evil  partnership, 
bad  for  both.  Your  Father  was  a  witness  of  the  fierce 
persecutions  in  Ireland  and  Scotland.  I  saw  my  own  Pas- 
tor ousted  from  his  pulpit  at  Ramelton  and  kept  in  prison 
year  after  year." 

"I  would  have  knocked  their  heads  off,"  flashed  the 
young  insurgent,  her  namesake  on  the  English  throne  not 
more  Queenly.  There  would  be  more  Virginia  girls  of 
that  type  in  the  years  to  come. 

"These  were  the  troubles,"  explained  the  Father, 
"which  sent  your  Papa  to  the  Western  wilds.  I  came 
to  spy  out  a  new  Canaan  for  the  oppressed.  Even  little 
boys  and  little  girls  across  the  seas  were  wronged  by  the 
Established  Churches." 

The  old  man  under  the  cedars  almost  felt  that  the 
granite  statue  was  speaking.  That  day  many  children 
were  mingling  among  the  older  people  in  the  Dedication. 
A  little  boy  with  Makemie  blood  in  his  veins  had  been 
on  the  sacred  grounds.  The  citizenship  of  the  future 
had  been  imbibing  wholesome  memories  from  McCook 
and  his  compeers. 


50  Makemieland    Memorials 

"Ecclesiastical  tyrants  die  hard,"  the  voice  seems  to 
say.  "Europe  is  in  a  ferment.  It  may  require  centuries 
for  the  complete  overthrow  of  that  dire  concubinage  of 
Church  and  State.  But  eventually  nation  after  nation 
will  throw  off  the  incubus.  It  will  be  contested  here,  but 
in  God's  ordination  these  Western  climes  are  to  supply 
the  object-lesson. 

"Your  Father  has  just  returned  from  the  first  success- 
ful fight.  I  did  not  seek  and  I  did  not  shirk  the  conflict. 
Traveling  to  the  land  of  the  Mathers,  in  New  York  I  was 
incarcerated  for  preaching  a  sermon  and  baptizing  a  little 
child.  Thus  the  babies  yet  to  be  are  parties  in  interest 
in  this  warfare. 

"A  cousin  of  Queen  Anne,  but  a  bad  man  and  un- 
righteous Governor,  tried  his  best  to  have  your  Father 
condemned  and  punished  as  a  felon !" 

"Poor  man,"  said  Elizabeth,  stroking  her  Father's 
hair,  "he  did  not  know  any  better;  he  did  not  know  my 
Papa !" 

"Yes,  old  Cornbury  did  know  better,"  declared  the 
embryo  Revolutionist;  "he  ought  to  be  driven  out.  I'll 
help!" 

Said  the  Father,  greatly  amused,  "We  can  safely  leave 
him  and  all  his  ills  to  the  real  Sovereign  of  this  Continent, 
the  Lord  God  of  Hosts.  The  oppressor  has  received  a 
staggering  blow.  I  have  suffered  and  my  health  seems 
shattered,  but  the  victory  outweighs  the  cost.  My  daugh- 
ters, see  you  those  mists  overhanging  the  Chesapeake? 
See  them  lifting,  dissolving,  scattering  before  the  sun- 
beams. So  the  shadows  will  fade  from  the  nations  and 
the  alliances  of  despot  and  bigot  pass  away.  I  am  glad 
that  I  was  thrust  into  the  breach!" 

"My  Papa  is  either  Moses  or  Elijah,"  said  Elizabeth. 


Makemieland    Memorials  51 

"He  is  both,"  declared  the  Junior  Champion ;  "and  he 
is  David  and  John  the  Baptist  and  Paul  and  Calvin  and 
Knox  and  a  hundred  more.  Wish  I  could  get  at  wicked 
old  Cornbury!" 

The  aged  dreamer  under  the  cedars  was  fondling 
Makemie's  little  girls  in  his  arms,  for  he  loved  them 
well.  Once  the  old  fellow  had  written  a  book  about  our 
Founder,  and  they  laughed  at  him  because  he  flung  a 
reverential  fancy  loose  upon  those  far  away  scenes  in 
order  to  dress  the  skeletons  in  flesh  and  blood.  Then  he 
laughed  at  the  critics  who  forgot  that  these  is  no  true 
history  without  the  imagination. 

And  it  was  even  so  the  old  dreamer  seemed  at  the 
close  of  that  day  to  see  the  little  Makemie  girls  strolling 
about  the  Monument  and  wondering  what  the  thousands 
of  footprints  meant ! 

IV. 

It  is  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  century  of  which 
Makemie  and  his  daughters  saw  the  beginning.  It  is  an 
epoch  that  has  its  grasp  upon  future  ages.  The  little 
woman  who  wept  at  her  Father's  grave  upon  this  hill  in 
1708,  is  an  old  white-haired  woman  now,  with  many  acres 
and  seventy-eight  negroes  and  the  memory  of  three  dead 
husbands  and  with  patriotism  abounding  and  with  a  pecu- 
liar sneeze.  The  children  will  be  imitating  that  sneeze 
after  her  death.  Yonder  brick  enclosure  holds  grand- 
parents and  parents  and  sister  Elizabeth — holds  all  of  her 
American  kith  and  kin.  She  stands  like  a  last  Evergreen 
in  a  great  field.  She  has  been  a  winner  of  hearts  and  is 
a  live  widow  yet. 

The  spirit  of  Makemie  will  not  default  while  Anne 


52  Makemieland    Memorials 

Holden  lives.  She  is  too  old  to  mount  her  war-steed 
like  Joan  of  Arc,  but  others  can  be  equipped  and  fired 
by  her  chivalry.  After  awhile,  childless,  the  last  of  her 
line,  she  will  see  that  these  lands  are  held  by  no  Tory 
proprietor.  Holden's  Creek  is  a  Rebel.  She  has  trans- 
ferred her  hatred  from  Cornbury  to  Cornwallis ! 

A  gunboat  swings  into  the  little  stream,  mad  for  the 
rich  widow  and  for  revenge  and  rapine.  Makemie's  fol- 
lowers walk  the  land  traitors  to  King  George.  Civil  and 
religious  liberty  rendezvous  between  the  Bays.  That  in- 
surrectionary sneeze  must  be  suppressed ! 

Few  now  survive  who  ever  saw  Sloop  Tabitha,  but 
the  champions  of  an  unshackled  Church  survive !  That 
pugnacious  little  girl  still  lives.  Her  neighbors  are  loyal 
to  the  old  Lady,  Ulster  blood  Virginianized,  and  John 
Milligan  has  no  trouble  in  gathering  a  brave  band.  In  a 
pine  grove  now  undermined  by  the  encroaching  tides  over 
yonder,  all  sorts  of  firearms  and  angry  fusillades  scare 
the  invaders  back.  Madam  triumphantly  sneezes !  and 
brave  John  Milligan  shall  own  the  land  he  defended ! 

Yes,  and  the  old  dreamer  smiles  again,  for  he  remem- 
bers how  a  niece  of  John  Milligan  positively  fixed  the 
site  of  that  old  brick  enclosure — an  old  white-haired 
woman,  once  a  little  girl  playing  barefoot  upon  that  brick 
wall — without  whose  definite  memory  Makemie's  and 
Madam  Holden's  burial  place  would  never  have  been 
identified  nor  the  Monument  ever  built.  Thus  Milligan's 
defiant  rifle  is  still  reverberating — and  our  Old  Mortality 
smiled. 

Those  historic  days  pass  along,  the  aged  Madam's 
heart  in  every  campaign.  The  Man  of  Mount  Vernon 
has  no  truer  friend.  The  women  of  the  Revolution  were 
more  than  Trojan — they  were  American.  When  King 
George  lost  their  hearts,  he  lost  all! 


Makemieland    Memorials  53 

What  is  that  deep  booming  the  Madam  hears  across 
the  waters?  The  war  has  been  transferred  to  the  Chesa- 
peake, and  Washington  and  Cornwallis  face  each  other 
for  a  final  grapple.  The  duel  is  on  at  Yorktown.  The 
Eastern  Shore  holds  her  breath ! 

Now  rises  and  swells  the  rumor  of  surrender.  All 
the  tributaries  of  the  Mother  of  Waters,  which  Makemie 
so  greatly  praised,  are  agitated ;  and  none  more  so  than 
Holden's  Creek.  Then  comes  the  confirmation  of  the 
news,  and  Holden's  Creek  is  in  a  conflagration  of  bon- 
fires. Cornbury  warring  against  Religious  Liberty  and 
Cornwallis  warring  against  Civil  Liberty  have  both  been 
beaten.  The  Madam  knows  that  the  Pioneers  have  not 
lived  in  vain  and  she  triumphantly  sneezes ! 

V. 

The  imposing  personage  on  its  granite  pedestal,  and 
the  dreamer  of  dreams  under  the  Evergreens,  had  been 
intensely  silent,  no  words  needed — there  where  the  crowds 
had  been  gathered  and  had  vanished  like  the  vanishing 
of  the  generations.  There  in  its  solitude  the  solemn  shaft 
is  far  more  impressive  than  amid  the  concourses  of  the 
living.  Alas  for  hearts  that  cannot  feel  its  sublimity  in 
standing  guard  forever  over  the  sacred  dust ! 

The  moon  was  silvery,  the  landscapes  and  the  presence 
of  the  noble  dead  hallowed  the  scene.  Was  the  aged 
hermit  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body  when  he  aroused 
and  addressed  the  Prophet  upon  the  rock? 

'Hail,  fellow  watcher!  It  is  appropriate  that  Old 
Age  and  the  Monuments  should  keep  company  together. 
We  are  kindred  milestones  along  the  years.  We  cannot 
get  along  without  our  dead.    They  still  walk  the  earth  as 


54  Makemieland   Memorials 

a   stimulus— in   history,   in  legend,   in  poesy,   in  the  in- 
spirations and   aspirations. 

"Our  Eastern  Shore  Indians  revered  the  sleeping 
places  of  the  departed  and,  when  they  left  the  Peninsula, 
they  carried  with  them  as  their  chief  treasures  the  bones 
and  the  relics  of  their  dead.  Civilization  cannot  survive 
desecrations. 

"You,  my  Makemie,  did  not  live  to  be  old,  child  of 
Donegal,  adopted  son  of  Virginia.  Among  the  beginnings 
you  went  in  your  prime.  Your  daughter,  almost  doubling 
your  age,  lived  to  see  the  flower  and  fruitage ;  the  country 
independent,  the  Church  free.  The  dead  are  our  livest 
citizens  and  our  most  wholesome  companions.  With  you 
I  left  Loch  Swilley;  with  you  I  sailed  the  ocean;  with 
you  I  sought  the  Eastern  Shore ;  with  you  I  preached 
at:  Rehoboth ;  with  you  I  gathered  the  little  bands  of  Pres- 
byterians. I  traveled  with  you,  as  Luke  traveled  with 
Paul. 

"My  Makemie,  you  and  your  contemporaries  planted 
diversified  crops  upon  our  Eastern  Shore.  Yes,  you 
planted  the  Gospel  and  its  great  sterling  Calvinistic  doc- 
trines, but  in  the  same  furrows  you  planted  sentiment, 
and  the  refinements  of  life,  and  the  love  of  books,  and 
poetry,  and  music,  and  sweet  homes,  and  the  love  of  wife 
and  children,  and  the  love  of  the  Land  of  the  Evergreens. 
Imagination  has  never  had  sweeter  outings  than  following 
upon  your  footsteps. 

"The  Monuments  are  our  Seers  and  our  Bards.  The 
Monuments  are  our  anchors.  The  Monuments  and  the 
Graves  are  our  bosom-friends.  I  inhale  the  odors  from 
the  Eternal  Gardens !" 

The  old  man,  again  lifting  his  hat,  saluting  the  former 
days,  bowing  to  the  silent  granite,  passed  away  like  a 
shadow  of  the  pines. 


Makemieland    Memorials  55 

Dawn  and  Mid-Day. 


"Who  is  she  that  looketh  forth  as  the  morning,  fair  as  thv 
moon,  clear  as  the  sun,  and  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners  ?" — 
Cant.  6.  10. 

By  the  foundations  of  the  old  Temple  the  Hebrew- 
still  has  his  Weeping  Place.  The  Briton  feels  the  spell 
of  Westminster  Abbey,  Stratford  on  Avon,  Runnymede. 
The  Scotch  Presbyterian  thrills  at  the  mention  of  Gray 
Friars'  Court,  the  House  of  John  Knox,  Bothwell's 
Bridge,  Killierankie.  The  Eastern  Shore  Calvinist,  where- 
ever  he  drifts,  turns  back  in  heart-pilgrimages  to 
Wicomico,  Monokin,  Buckingham,  Snow  Hill,  Rocka- 
walkin,  Pitts  Creek  and  Rehoboth. 

There  is  poetry  and  inspiration  in  standing  where 
the  Pioneers  have  stood ;  where  the  old-time  fathers  and 
mothers  planted  the  Doctrines ;  and  where  in  venerable 
cemeteries  is  reposing  the  dust  of  the  saints.  Here  we 
dream  our  picturesque  dreams  of  the  morning  dawn,  the 
rising  moon,  the  ascending  sun  and  the  blue  banners  of 
our  American  Presbyterianism. 

For  awhile  I  sketch  briefly  seven  or  eight  of  the  habi- 
liments and  pieces  of  armor  in  which  the  panoplied 
Church  looketh  forth  as  the  morning. 

1.  The  Enthusiasms  of  her  History.  Every  clause  in 
her  Standards  has  its  pedigree  running  back  to  the  New 
Testament  and  to  the  Old.  Every  brighter  spot  in  the 
annals  of  Redemption,  even  amid  the  darkest  ages,  was 
an  oasis  of  Presbyterianism  and  Calvinism.  In  the  Vales 
of  Piedmont,  in  Iona's  Isle,  the  Apostolic  germ  survived. 
As  said  our  M'akemfo  "By  all  computation,  Presby- 
terians and  Calvinists,  with  such  as  are  in  communion 


56  Makemieland    Memorials 

with  them,  are  the  greater  part  and  the  better  part  of  the 
Reformation." 

Said  John  Morley,  the  accomplished  Historian,  "Cal- 
vinism saved  Europe  during  the  Sixteenth  Century."  Then 
torn  and  bled  in  Europe,  our  Church  was  flung  upon  the 
American  shores.  In  the  spots  all  along  the  coast  where 
orthodox  Dutch  and  Huguenot  and  Puritan  and  Scotch 
and  Scotch-Irish  found  lodgment,  there  was  no  spot  more 
luminous  with  the  genuine  and  unadulterated  than  in  these 
regions  between  the  Bays.  Right  here  as  the  advanced 
guard  in  1683  appeared  our  blue-eyed,  fair-complexioned, 
light-haired  son  of  the  Emerald  Isle.  Makemie  was  to 
face  opposers,  but  our  young  Irishman  knew  how  to  wield 
the  shalalah.  Speaking  of  the  overthrow  of  the  Stuart 
Dynasty,  he  exclaims :  "Blessed  be  God  for  our  season- 
able and  happy  Revolution  that  has  in  a  great  measure 
broke  the  deep  projects  of  that  Jesuitical  party  and,  by 
an  established  liberty  to  all  Dissenting  Protestants,  has 
bound  the  hands  of  former  persecutors." 

But  young  Francis  did  not  know  that  the  persecutors 
were  yet  to  make  their  fight  on  this  continent  against 
him  and  his,  and  that  in  a  hundred  years  there  was  to 
be  another  Revolution  when  the  Presbyterian  hosts  were 
to  be  literally  an  army  with  banners.  Says  the  Historian, 
Bancroft :  "He  who  does  not  honor  the  name  and  in- 
fluence of  Calvin  betrays  his  ignorance  of  the  origin  of 
American  liberty."  And  declares  another  terse  writer: 
"The  Shorter  Catechism  fought  the  War  of  Indepen- 
dence." 

Here  along  the  sparkling  Eastern  Shore  water-courses, 
the  Matchatank,  Holden's  Creek,  the  Onancock,  the 
Monpkin,  the  Wicomico,  the  Pocomoke,  was  planted  the 
sifted  wheat.     I  see  our  Founder's   white- winged  sloop 


Makemieland    Memorials  57 

threading  these  streams  freighted  with  the  tenets  of 
of  Geneva  and  the  Pauline  Epistles;  I  see  Pony  Button 
exploring  pine  woods  and  cypress  jungles  with  Confes- 
sion of  Faith  and  brace  of  pistols  in  the  holsters.  Thus 
the  young  Rehoboth  of  227  years  ago,  looking  forth  as 
the  morning,  was  to  be  the  prolific  mother  of  thousands 
of  churches  in  forty-six  great  commonwealths  in  the  Yet- 
To-Be ! 

2.  The  inspiration  of  sturdy  Bible  doctrines.  There 
they  stood  from  the  beginning,  rugged  as  Scotia's  crags. 
Says  the  Historian  Froude,  not  a  Presbyterian:  "Cal- 
vinism is  the  spirit  which  rises  in  revolt  against  all  un- 
truth ;  it  is  but  the  inflashing  upon  the  conscience  of  the 
laws  by  which  mankind  are  governed."  The  great  his- 
toric Five  Points — Sovereign  Election,  Definite  Atone- 
ment, Universal  Depravity,  Efficacious  Grace,  Final  Per- 
severance— these  have  been  the  builders  of  character  and 
of  history.  I  love  to  repeat  Makemie's  answer  to  the 
threat  of  the  profligate  Governor  of  New  York:  "You 
shall  not  spread  your  pernicious  doctrine  here !"  Then 
the  bold  retort  rang  back:  "As  to  our  doctrine,  my  Lord, 
we  have  our  Confession  of  Faith,  which  is  known  to  the 
Christian  world,  and  I  challenge  all  the  clergy  of  York  to 
show  us  any  false  or  pernicious  doctrine  therein!" 

That  challenge  is  still  out.  The  Makemie  Churches 
cherish  the  faith  of  the  fathers.  They  stand  pat  on  the 
doctrines.  The  erratic  laxness  now  and  then  besetting 
other  sections  has  never  invaded  Makemieland.  Very 
radiant  have  been  the  morning  beams,  the  lustrous  moon- 
rays,  the  clear  shining  of  the  sun,  the  bright  legends  upon 
our  ensigns. 

3.  Our  God-given  Church  Polity.    When  the  father- 


58  Makemieland    Memorials 

in-law  of  Moses  suggested  that  Board  of  Elders,  the  Prei- 
bytery  in  the  wilderness,  he  proved  his  statesmanship  for 
all  time.  Christ  and  all  his  Apostles  grew  up  in  Presby- 
terian Synagogues.  The  only  ordination  ever  thought  of 
by  Paul  was  by  laying  on  of  Presbyterial  hands. 

Said  the  Bishop  of  Durham,  the  most  learned  of  them 
all:  "The  office  which  the  Apostles  instituted  was  in  a 
kind  of  rule  not  by  Bishops  but  by  Presbyters ;  and  even 
down  to  the  Third  Century  Presbyters  as  well  as  Bishops 
possessed  the  power  of  nominating  and  consecrating 
Bishops;  and,  besides,  there  were  from  the  commence- 
ment of  the  Middle  Ages  down  to  the  Reformation  large 
exceptions  from  the  principle  of  Episcopal  government 
which  can  be  called  by  no  other  name  than  Presbyterian." 
Such  was  the  little  Presbytery  organized  by  Makemie  in 
Philadelphia  in  1706 — a  full-blood  daughter  of  those  im- 
mortalized by  Paul.  Our  Founder  emphasizes  the 
spiritual  oversight :  "Our  Lord  Jesus  has  prescribed 
spiritual  laws  and  constituted  a  suitable  government  and 
spiritual  rule  in  His  Church,  entrusted  to  particular  per- 
sons to  be  duly  executed."  Thus  like  Jethro  and  Moses 
our  Pioneer  planted  another  Presbytery  in  the  wilderness. 
Thus  our  Divinely-ordained  series  of  graded  Courts  pre- 
empted the  New  World,  looking  forth  as  the  morning. 

4.  A  wholesome  charm  in  her  simple  forms  of  wor- 
ship. Her  unostentatious  and  impressive  sacraments ;  her 
spontaneous  prayers ;  her  emphasis  upon  the  Scriptures 
as  read  and  preached ;  her  sound  devotional  Psalmody ; 
no  sensational  freaks  in  the  pulpit,  no  sacrilegious 
mountebank,  no  smart  Alecks  to  laugh  people  into  the 
kingdom;  no  aping  of  the  liturgical  or  other  attempts 
to  engraft  diverse  systems  upon  our  native  olive  tree ; 
everything  thoughtful,  solemn,  reverent,  elevating.    Says 


Makemieland    Memorials  59 

Makemie:  "We  do  not  receive  nor  comply  with  stinted 
and  imposed  forms  and  liturgies  because  not  commanded 
nor  warrented  by  the  Word  of  God  nor  known  in  the 
purest  and  original  centuries  of  the  Gospel  Churches." 
The  Makemie  Churches  do  not  take  kindly  to  intrusive 
innovations. 

It  is  winsome  to  hear  our  old  hero  telling  of:  "The 
experiences  of  thousands  of  the  Godly,  of  ravishings  of 
soul  and  ineffable  joy  and  comfort  from  praising  God." 
So  Ave  love  to  hear  him  tell  of  his  personal  delight  in 
the  old  Communion  Seasons:  "My  own  experience  of 
the  grace,  blessing  and  benefits  of  this  great,  special  and 
solemn  ordinance."  These  virgin  forests  knew  what  ex- 
perimental religion  meant.  The  ways  of  the  fathers,  the 
spiritual  elevations  acclimated  on  this  conservative  Pen- 
insula— ah  yes,  the  old-time  religion  is  good  enough  for 
us !  and  for  200  more  years  to  come !  Thus  the  Bride  of 
the  Lamb,  with  the  dews  of  the  dawn  upon  her,  looked 
forth  as  the  morning. 

5.  The  amenities  of  genuine  Church  culture.  She 
accepted  her  commission  literally,  "Go  teach  all  nations." 
HeF  insistence  upon  an  educated  ministry  and  her  empha- 
sis upon  the  indoctrination  of  the  young,  have  enriched 
the  world  with  vast  bonanzas.  Makemie  brought  to 
these  Shores  the  stamp  of  the  University  of  Glasgow  and 
the  impress  of  a  cultured  Presbytery.  Assailants  of  the 
faith  found  him  equipped  for  the  arena.  Led  to  Christ 
when  a  boy  by  a  Godly  Schoolmaster,  his  heart  naturally 
believed  in  early  piety  and  the  schools.  Make  a  note  on  it. 
The  American  Presbyterian  Church  was  built  on  a  con- 
version in  boyhood.  So  we  hear  him  saying:  "The  ad- 
vantages of  our  early  education  is  witnessed  by  the  ex- 
perience of  many  Godly  of  all  ages,  where  attended  with 


6o  Makemieland    Memorials 

the  blessing  of  God  and  pursued  with  exhortation  until 
they  arrive  at  a  riper  age."  The  first  book  written  amid 
these  sea-breezes  was  Makemie's  Catechism>  which  he 
so\ted  among  the  pines.  These  Makemie  Churches  are 
rightfully  the  Children's  Churches.  They  stand  for  an 
intelligent  piety. 

Says  a  writer  of  note :  "The  little  Republic  of  Geneva 
was  the  sun  of  the  European  mind."  Says  another  au- 
thority: "For  the  first  200  years  of  American  History 
almost  every  College  and  Seminary  of  Learning,  and  al- 
most every  Academy  and  Common  School  even,  had  been 
built  and  sustained  by  Calvinists."  So  says  the  Bride : 
"I  would  lead  thee  and  bring  thee  into  my  mother's  house 
who  would  instruct  me."  Thus  instructed,  our  youthful 
Church  looked  forth  as  the  morning. 

6.  I  love  to  speak  of  the  stimulus  of  inherited  religious 
blood.  The  pulse  of  Eastern  Shore  Presbyterianism,  un- 
der such  heart-beats,  should  throb  full  and  strong.  Born 
of  Presbyterian  parentage,  rocked  in  Presbyterian  cradles, 
nursed  upon  Presbyterian  milk,  dandled  in  Presbyterian 
arms,  trained  in  Presbyterian  traditions,  fed  upon  the 
marrow  of  Presbyterian  Divinity,  this  is  typical  blue 
blood. 

I  stood  by  the  dying  bed  of  a  daughter  of  one  of  these 
Makemie  Churches  dying  in  St.  Louis.  I  saw  the  golden 
bowl  breaking-,  the  silver  cord  loosing.  Bidding  brother, 
husband,  children  all  good-bye,  face  already  gilded  with 
the  radiance  of  the  Land  that  needs  no  moon  or  sun,  we 
thought  her  done  with  earth.  Once  more  she  came  back 
and  said :  "I  would  love  to  have  one  more  glimpse  of 
the  old  Eastern  Shore — the  pine  woods,  the  laurel  blooms, 
the  prattling  brooks,  the  play-grounds,  the  dear  old 
Churches  of  the  fathers!"     And  then  she  was  gone.     I 


Makemieland    Memorials  61 

think  she  and  the  angels  passed  Heavenward  this  way. 
It  was  the  face  of  one  that  looketh  forth  as  the  morning. 
7.  The  appropriation  of  an  assured  future.  Wel- 
come, ye  revered  of  other  days,  to  the  front  seats  in  these 
Sanctuaries.  Moses  comes  and  Isaiah  comes  and  Paul 
comes,  gathering  with  God's  people.  And  Calvin  comes 
and  Knox  comes  and  Makemie  comes  and  our  buried 
loved  ones  come.  Enter,  ye  worshipers  of  other  days, 
and  face  these  pulpits.  See,  the  shadowy  forms  passing 
up  the  aisles.     The  sacred  past  is  ours ! 

But  I  hear  other  footsteps  entering  and  advancing — 
the  congregations  after  you  and  I  are  gone.  The  home- 
nurseries  and  the  primary  classes,  the  children  and  the 
children's  children,  these  are  partners  too  in  interest.  The 
Church  of  God  is  a  perpetual  bloomer.  The  future  is 
ours !  God  declared  the  Abrahamic  Covenant  an  "Ever- 
lasting Covenant."  Boys  and  girls  are  still  its  heirs  and 
heiresses.  "Let  us  get  up  early  to  the  vineyard ;  let  us  see 
if  the  vine  flourish,  whether  the  tender  grape  appear  and 
the  pomegranates  bud  forth;  then  will  I  give  thee  my 
loves." 

These  sweet  hymns  will  be  sung  by  other  singers'. 
These  pulpits  will  be  filled  by  pastors  now  in  swaddling 
clothes.  God's  Electing  Grace  will  go  on  gathering  its 
trophies.  There  are  revivals,  there  are  refreshings,  there 
are  ingatherings  yet  to  be.  Expect  it,  count  upon  it,  work 
toward  it.  It  is  full  time  for  Makemieland  to  be  up  and 
doing.     The  promises  look   forth  as  the  morning 

8.  We  should  be  in  readiness  to  share  in  the  mingled 
loves  of  the  Bridegroom  and  the  Bride.  Now  we  put  on 
the  beautiful  garments  of  expectancy.  The  optimist  is 
right— bright  scenes  and  still  brighter  on  ahead.  A  lover 
of  the  beautiful   from  babyhood,  cultivating  the  bright 


62  Makemieland   Memorials 

side  of  things,  I  have  never  seen  anything  more  exqui- 
site than  a  hearty,  harmonious,  expectant,  zealous,  happy 
Church  membership — busily  dutiful,  aggressive,  ready  for 
the  coming  of  the  King! 

Makemie  Churches  revived  and  alert,  Makemie 
Churches  with  every  household  under  the  baptisms  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,  Makemie  Churches  bringing  every  burning 
heart  to  the  front — Solomon  in  all  his  glory  never  more 
royally  arrayed.  And  why  not?  Have  these  old  citidels 
of  our  Founder  lost  their  grip  ?  Are  they  barely  holding 
their  own  ?  Here  in  this  favored  section  where  it  started, 
has  Presbyterianism  done  its  best,  stagnated  and  settled 
upon  its  lees? 

This  Peninsula  ought  to  have  been  a  Presbyterian 
Peninsula.  Has  somebody  loitred?  Has  somebody  slept 
upon  his  post?  Makemie  found  it  Missionary  ground. 
It  is  still  Missionary  ground.  There  are  splendid  possi- 
bilities within  your  reach.  The  spirit  of  the  past  salutes 
you.  You  are  kneeling  where  many  a  father  and  mother 
in  Israel  has  knelt.  Old  memories  will  help  you.  These 
ancient  Shrines  will  help  you.  The  graveyards  will  help 
you — for  they  too  at  His  coming  shall  look  forth  as  the 
morning,  fair  as  the  moon,  clear  as  the  sun  and  glorious 
as  conquering  heroes  with  their  banners ! 

Come  stand  with  me  on  your  white  beaches  in  the 
presence  of  the  vast  expanse  of  waters.  It  is  night.  Im- 
mensity— the  roll,  the  boom,  the  mystery,  the  impenetra- 
ble— the  mighty  ocean1  shrouded !  Over  these  surges 
Makemie  brought  the  Ark  to  your  Shores.  The  Infinite 
is  there — holding  the  depths  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand. 
Thick  darkness  veils  the  profound  magnificence  like  the 
veil  upon  the  counsels  of  God.  There  are  mighty  throb- 
bings — but  we  cannot  see ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  63 

Straining  our  eyes  in  awe,  lo,  something  undefined 
appears  upon  the  vague  horizon — a  fleecy  haze,  a  premo- 
nition of  light,  a  pervading  glimmer;  now  glimpses  of 
billows  and  white-caps;  the  dim  illumination  spreading 
like  a  smile.  The  eye  begins  to  take  its  bearings,  and, 
behold,  the  gentle  queen  of  night  walks  forth  in  celestial 
radiance  like  a  saint  from  the  tomb;  moonlight  on  the 
waters — old  ocean  in  vestments  of  silver.  It  is  one  of  the 
poems  of  the  Eastern  Shore.    "Fair  as  the  moon!" 

Look  again.  An  hour  has  passed.  New  streaks  and 
more  vivid  appear  in  the  East,  spangles  darting  toward 
the  zenith — a  broadening  effulgence — panoramas  of  splen- 
dors— and,  lo,  the  king  of  day  emerges,  coming  forth  like 
a  bridegroom  from  his  chambers.  This  is  another  of 
the  treasures  of  Makemieland.    "Clear  as  the  sun!" 

And  now  the  perspective  mantles  with  effulgence ;  the 
pine  woods  bordering  the  deep  illuminated ;  the  martialed 
surges  in  battalions  and  phalanxes ;  boundless  ocean  alive 
and  visible ;  the  unfathomable  lift  and  evolutions — rolling 
on  like  eternity— "terrible  as  an  army  with  banners !" 

So  we  stand  and  look  forth  upon  the  forces  of  Re- 
demption, the  profound  developments  of  God's  Covenant. 
They  too  have  their  night-hours.  "Verily  Thou  art  a 
God  that  hidest  Thyself."  Ah  the  mysteries,  the  depths 
unfathomed,  the  thundering  and  the  undertow !  Men 
come  and  go,  generations  come  and  go,  centuries  come 
and  go.  Pulpits  and  pews  are  emptied.  The  graveyards 
fill.  God's  purposes  move  on  undisturbed.  The  Infinite 
is  there!  The  Bride  of  the  Lamb  is  putting  on  her 
attire — in  the  dark. 

Lo,  Millennial  streaks  appear  along  the  horizon,  God 
has  His  hand  upon  the  billows,  the  onward  sweep  of  the 
tides.    Jesus  is  walking  the  waves  of  Genessaret  and  the 


64  Makemieland   Memorials 

Chesapeake  and  the  Seven  Seas.     The  gates  of  hell  are 
not  prevailing. 

The  Church  has  her  infancy  but  no  old  age.  She  sees 
the  streaks  in  the  East.  "The  morning  cometh" — "the 
Day-spring  from  on  high."  The  Heavens  grow  luminous. 
"Who  is  she  that  looketh  forth  as  the  morning,  fair  as 
the  moon,  clear  as  the  sun  and  formidable  as  an  army 
with  banners !" 


Makemieland    Memorials  65 

Rehoboth— the  Mother  Church 


The  question  as  to  priority  of  age  between  our  Make- 
mie  Churches  was  never  worth  a  conflict.  Unquestion- 
ably they  all  came  into  existence  very  near  the  same  time, 
as  soon  as  their  Founder  could  visit  them  and  gather  the 
patches  of  Presbyterians  into  these  centers.  But  when 
positive  and  unsupported  claims  are  made,  Rehoboth 
must  not  let  the  truth  go  by  default.  We  therefore  con- 
dense the  incontrovertible  facts : 

1.  A  hundred  years,  during  his  life  and  after  his 
death,  there  is  not  one  recorded  fact  connecting  Ma- 
kemie's  name  with  any  other  Maryland  Church  than  Re- 
hoboth. 

2.  The  first  settlements  of  Somerset  County,  now  the 
three  counties  of  Somerset  and  Worcester  and  Wicomico, 
were,  as  the  recorded  land-patents  show,  from  the  Chesa- 
peake side,  at  the  mouth  of  the  rivers,  advancing  scat- 
teringly  toward  the  ocean — the  early  population  chiefly 
between  the  Pocomoke,  Annamessex  and  the  Monokin. 
Hence  the  Court  Houses  were  in  that  section,  first  in 
Revell's  Neck  and  then  on  Dividing  Creek.  All  others 
were  built  long  after  Makemie's  day.  Most  of  the  Pres- 
byterians were  in  those  territories  and  in  easy  reach  of 
Rehoboth — then  Pocomoke  Town. 

3.  Col.  William  Stevens,  the  most  prominent  Eastern 
Shore  official,  Judge  of  the  County  Court  from  its  organi- 
zation in  1666  till  his  death  in  1687,  also  a  member  of 
the  Provincial  Council  and  a  Deputy  Lieutenant  of  Lord 
Baltimore,  lived  at  this  centre  on  his  Rehoboth  Plantation 
patented  in  1665.     Just  below  him  lived  Judge  Francis 


66  Makemieland    Memorials 

Jenkins,  Makemie's  personal  friend.  Near  by  lived  Judge 
George  Layfield  who  married  Stevens'  widow.  In  the 
same  vicinity  lived  the  High  Sheriff  White,  brother-in-law 
of  Stevens  and  buried  in  the  same  graveyard.  These  are 
pregnant  facts — no  other  such  centre  of  influence  in  all 
the  wide  county.  Even  back  in  1672,  eleven  years  before 
Makemie's  arrival,  we  find  the  great  English  Quaker, 
George  Fox,  preaching  there  to  crowds  of  whites  and 
Indians  and  arranging  for  monthly  meetings  at  that  point. 
The  same  year  the  Grand  Jury,  with  David  Brown,  a 
Scotch  Presbyterian,  as  Foreman  and  Judge  Stevens  pre- 
siding, appointed  regular  religious  services  there — and 
at  only  three  other  points,  one  on  the  Annamessex,  one 
on  the  lower  Monokin  and  another  on  the  lower 
Wicomico.  Those  familiar  with  the  geography  will  see 
the  relevancy  of  these  facts.  These  data  from  the  an- 
cient Princess  Anne  Records  locate  the  centres  of  popu- 
lation and  influence.  Rehoboth,  then  Pocomoke  Town, 
was  made  a  Port  of  Entry  in  1683,  the  year  of  Makemie's 
arrival.    The  county  prison  was  built  there  in  1701. 

4.  Because  of  his  prominence  in  the  Colony  and  be- 
cause his  home  was  a  religious  centre,  its  very  name  Re- 
hoboth implying  toleration,  "There  is  room,"  Stevens  was 
selected  by  the  Presbyterians  to  make  application  to  the 
Presbytery  of  Laggan  for  a  Minister.  Why  not  from 
some  other  quarter  than  Rehoboth?  Young  Makemie, 
then  twenty-two  years  old,  heard  that  letter  read  with  the 
name  of  Stevens  affixed  and  there  the  young  Theologian's 
mind  is  directed  to  America  in  December,  1680.  How 
beautiful  God's  providence !  Not  only  did  young  Make- 
mie hear  that  application,  but  also  the  Stated  Clerk,  Wil- 
liam Trail,  who  was  afterwards  to  be  a  neighbor  of 
Stevens  on  the  Pocomoke.  Again  how  pregnant  the  facts ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  67 . 

On  Makemie's  arrival  in  the  Colony  in  1683  and  Trail's 
arrival  in  1684,  where  and  to  zvJwm  arc  they  to  report 
unless  to  Stevens  and  those  neighbors  who  made  the  ap- 
plication ?  The  tomb  of  Stevens  is  still  legible  and  the 
foundations  of  the  house  still  visible — the  usual  place  of 
worship  for  Dissenters  for  eleven  years  preceding.  There 
are  no  such  interesting  probabilities  clustering  around 
any  other  spot  on  the  Peninsula.  Remember  there  is  not 
one  single  place  or  fact  or  historical  landmark  to  rebut 
the  inevitable  conclusions. 

5.  Makemie  had  been  sent  out  as  the  advance  guard 
to  spy  out  the  land  for  the  persecuted  Ministers,  the  whole 
Presbytery  thinking  of  emigrating.  The  next  year,  1684, 
the  Stated  Clerk  follows  and  where  does  this  able  man 
settle  ?  Where  does  Makemie  place  the  prominent  leader, 
William  Trail,  who  had  helped  to  ordain  him  and  who 
was  one  of  the  strongest  in  America?  For  six  years  and 
until  he  went  back  to  Scotland  in  1690,  Trail  lives  on  his 
farm  of  "Brother's  Love"  on  the  Pocomoke  only  a  little 
way  below  Rehoboth.  During  those  yean,  Samuel  Davis 
was  pastor  at  Snow  Hill,  the  Court  Records  showing  a 
marriage  by  him  in  1684,  a  recorded  will  showing  a  be- 
quest to  him  in  169 1,  and  an  item  indicating  his  removal 
to  Lewes  in  1697.  During  Trail's  stay,  Makemie  had 
been  doing  evangelistic  work,  with  his  home  down  at 
Matchatank  in  Virginia. 

6.  In  1691,  Trail  now  gone,  we  have  again  direct 
Record  evidence  of  Makemie's  preaching  again  at  Re- 
hoboth— a  funeral  sermon  and  the  details  given  in  a  Court 
trial.  Thus  he  was  evidently  in  charge  again  at  Reho- 
both as  soon  as  Trail  left.  We  rely  upon  positive  facts 
and  dates  in  the  Records  and  not  on  surmises  ar  asser- 


•68  Makemieland    Memorials 

tions.    Note  again  that  meanwhile  the  Maryland  Records 
never  mention  him  in  connection  with  any  other  Church. 

j.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  her  Founder's  making 
his  home  at  Rehoboth  after  his  leaving  his  Matchatank 
plantation  until  his  marriage.  For  the  time  he  drops  en- 
tirely out  of  the  Virginia  Records.  Note  that  Rehoboth 
was  first  called  Pocomoke  Town.  Now  we  see  him  writ- 
ing of  "my  house  at  Pocomoke."  We  know  that  he 
owned  land  there  upon  which  a  new  Church  was  after- 
wards built.  Record  is  made  (1693)  of  corn  to  be  de- 
livered to  him  "at  the  mill  at  Rehoboth."  His  answer  to 
the  Quaker  Keith,  who  had  assailed  his  Catechism,  is 
written  and  dated  "at  Rehoboth  in  Pocomoke,  Maryland" 
(1692).  In  the  same  Will  of  Galbraith  (1691)  in  which 
Samuel  Davies  is  described  as  "Minister  at  Snow  Hill." 
Makemie  is  designated  as  "Minister  of  the  Gospel  at 
Rehoboth  Town."  These  are  attested  facts,  not  inferences 
nor  vague  tradition.  Amid  these  accumulated  data,  still 
bear  in  mind  that  with  no  other  Church  in  Maryland  do 
his  own  writings  nor  the  Court  Records  nor  any  other 
Records  associate  the  name  of  Francis  Makemie.  He 
may  have  preached  in  them  and  founded  them,  but  it 
cannot  be  proved. 

8.  In  Makemie's  Will  (1708)  we  read  of  the  new 
Church,  the  second  in  Rehoboth,  and  built  upon  his  own 
grounds.  Which  of  the  other  churches  so  favored?  How 
carefully  his  Will  guards  the  devise:  "For  ye  ends  and 
uses  of  a  Presbyterian  congregation  and  to  their  succes- 
sors forever ;  and  none  else  but  to  such  of  ye  same  per- 
suasion in  matters  of  religion."  Only  one  other  Church 
is  remembered  in  this  last  Testament — his  library  given  to 
the  Church  in  Philadelphia  where  he  gathered  the  first 


Makemieland    Memorials  69 

Presbytery.  Is  it  not  beautifully  suggestive  that  he  made 
these  love-gifts  to  his  first  organized  Church  and  his  first 
organized  Presbytery  ? 

9.  The  testimony  of  Anne  Makemie  Holden's  Pastor. 
During  his  long  Pastorate  of  thirty-one  years  at  Pitts 
Creek,  Snow  Hill  and  Rehoboth,  Rev.  Samuel  McMaster 
over  a  hundred  years  ago  left  a  manuscript  history  of 
his  times — the  first  historical  witness  and  one  who  knew 
Makemie's  daughter  ior  years  and  could  have  secured  his 
facts  from  her.  In  the  valuable  published  "Letters"  of 
Irving  Spence,  an  honored  Snow  Hill  Elder  of  the  past 
generation,  is  preserved  the  following  extract  from  Mc- 
Master's  History:  "This  first  congregation,  which  wor- 
shipped at  Rehoboth,  consisted  of  English  Dissenters.  A 
fezv  families  migrated  from  England,  their  consciences 
not  suffering  them  to  comply  with  the  Establishment  then 
existing,  and  settled  near  the  mouth  of  the  Pocomoke 
river  and  the  adjacent  parts — some  on  the  East  and  some 
on  the  West  side  of  the  river — and  formed  themselves 
into  a  religious  Society  for  the  public  worship  of  God. 
A  house  for  public  worship  was  built  on  the  West  side 
of  the  river  at  a  place  called  Rehoboth."  Who  has  ever 
impeached  that  testimony?  Weigh  every  word  and  com- 
pare with  Makemie's  own  writings  and  original  authori- 
ties as  detailed  above.  Here  is  the  first  historian  and  an 
intimate  acquaintance  of  our  Founder's  daughter  whom 
she  remembers  fondly  in  her  Will,  leaving  him  her 
Father's  valued  desk.  It  demands  something  more  than 
the  bold  assertions  of  modern  writers  to  discount  such 
evidence.  Taken  in  connection  with  the  Court  Records, 
it  is  conclusive  and  impregnable. 


yo  Makemieland    Memorials 

io.  Dr.  McDonald  argues  manfully  for  the  seniority 
of  Jamaica  Church,  Long  Island,  but  his  own  facts  prove 
that  in  its  -earlier  years  it  was  not  a  Presbyterian  but  a 
Congregational  Church.  He  finally  concedes  that,  "Mr. 
McNish  may  therefore  be  regarded  as  father  of  the  Pres- 
byterian Church  on  Long  Island."  But  McNish  had  come 
to  America  twenty-four  years  after  Makemie,  brought 
over  by  our  Founder,  in  1707,  and  had  preached  in  Make- 
mieland four  years  before  he  went  to  Long  Island ! 

11.  In  view  of  all  these  absolute  facts,  not  as  mis- 
stated by  inexact  historians  and  interested  parties,  but 
as  based  upon  all  the  original  documents,  the  Presbytery 
of  New  Castle,  the  Synod  of  Baltimore,  and  the  General 
Assembly  have  defintiely  accorded  the  rights  of  primo- 
geniture to  Rehoboth.  It  is  an  adjudicated  case.  And 
against  this  verdict  and  concensus,  and  against  the  above 
array  of  invulnerable  facts,  there  is  no  attempt  at  re- 
buttal except  by  the  merest,  reiterated  assertion. 

The  noble  Monument  on  Holden's  Creek  turns  its 
face  impressively  toward  old  Rehoboth,  a  few  miles  to 
the  northward,  with  hand  raised  to  Heaven  in  eloquent 
benediction. 


POEMS. 


Eastern  Shore  Wild  Flowers; 
and  Other  Wild    Things. 


Makemieland    Memorials  73 


Eastern  Shore  Wild  Flowers. 


FOREWORD— AT  SEVENTY  SEVEN. 

I've  never  seen  the  reason  why 

God's  children  should  grow  old; 
I  never  knew  why  loving  hearts 

Should  shrivel  and  wax  cold; 
The  world  is  fresh  and  fair  to-day 

As  when  the  world  began ; 
God  just  the  same  the  Fathers  knew 

And  just  as  good  to  man. 

There's  optimism  all  abroad 

In  all  I  hear  and  see; 
In  old  May  pinks  and  lilac  bloom, 

In  bird  and  honey  bee ; 
About  my  way  the  sunshine  falls 

Sweet  as  a  child's  caress ; 
Where  birds  are  glad  and  blossoms  smile, 

I  breathe  their  youthfulness. 

I  love  the  human  face  divine, 

I  love  the  speaking  eye ; 
I  love  the  dimple  in  the  cheek, 

The  veil  of  modesty; 
I  love  the  lilt  of  human  tones, 

The  spell  of  genial  ways ; 
I  love  the  lassies  just  as  well 

As  in  the  puppy  days ! 

I  love  the  books,  the  deathless  books, 

The  tonics  for  the  dull ; 
The  winsome  authors,  old  and  new, 

Benign,  companionable, 


74  Makemieland    Memorials 

Belles  lettres  and  historians 

And  songs  the  poets  sung; 
And,  hush,  a  novel  now  and  then — 

It  helps  to  keep  me  young ! 

And  then   I   love  to   scribble   too, 

The  pen  its   frisky  time ; 
Stray   fun   that's   lurking   everywhere, 

And  little  spurts  of  rhyme; 
For  instance — sweet,   eat,  little  feet, 

And  moon  and  June  and  coon; 
It  holds  blue  devils  in  the  leash 

And  keeps  the  heart  in  tune ! 

If  stupid  hours  come  sneaking  up, 

If  tricky  care  besets, 
Go  take  a  ramble  through  the  woods 

And  pick  the  violets. 
Thiee  score  and  ten?     Oh  very  well — 

Some  pines  are  in  their  teens, 
Some  septuagenarians, 

But  all  are  evergreens ! 

If  appetite  coquets  a  wee, 

Then  take  your  line  and  hook 
And  tramp  the  everglades  and  find 

The  sunfish  in  his  nook ; 
And  spy  upon  the  fairy  folks 

Among  the  myrtle  bushes. 
And  see  the  naiads  where  they  swim 

Among  the  flags  and  rushes. 

These  neighboring  Bays  have  boyhood's  ways, 

No  dotage  in  the  waters ; 
The   rivers   dance  on  girlishly, 

And  all  their  brooklet  daughters; 
There's  no  dull  care  in  ozone  air. 

Stars  twinkle  as  of  yore — 
No  sense  at  all  in  growing  old 

On   youthful    Eastern   Shore ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  75 


FRANCIS    MAKEMIE 

Proud  Presbyterians  of  the  Eastern  Shore, 
Your  pride  is  orthodox.    Put  backbone  there, 
A  clean  escutcheon,  no  bar  sinister, 
Since  Paul  laid  on  his  Presbyterial  hands 
And  Peter's  pen  declared  his  Eldership. 
In  bleak  Iona's  Isle,  in  Piedmont  vales, 
Straight  pedigree  till  gallant  Knox  in  Scotland, 
And,  mightiest  brain  of  Reformation  days, 
Geneva's  peerless  seer  and  sun,  John  Calvin, 
Brought  Presbytery  to  its  own  again. 

Like  Canaan  for  her  Abraham 

Awaiting  dawn  of  day, 
So  waited  here  between  the  Bays 

Our  old  Peninsula ; 
Fragrant  as  myrtle  'mid  her  pines, 

Strong  as  her   sturdiest  oak, 
He  comes,  the  Paul  of  Accomack, 

The  Knox  of  Pocomoke ! 

Popery  was  raging  on  the  Continent, 
Prelacy  ran  amuck  in  the  British  Isles. 
The  blood  of  Presbyterian  martyrs  flowed 
On  hill  and  dale  and  cried  aloud  to  Heaven. 
Our  God  was  sifting  out  the  finest  wheat 
To  sow  it  broadcast  on  the  Western  wilds. 
Between  the  Bays,  a  respite  from  the  storms, 
And  sheltered  in  the  groves,  staunch  refugees 
From  fire  and  sword  of  Prelates  and  their  Kings, 
Appealed  to  Ulster  for  leadership  and  guide. 

Upon  the  hills  of  Donegal 

A  young  man  hears  the  plea ; 
From  hearth  and  home  he  turns  away 

And  sails  the  unknown  sea; 
Makemie  comes !     Along  the  coast 

The  morning  dawn  awoke — 
John  Calvin  of  the  Matchatank, 

John  Knox  of  Pocomoke ! 


y6  Makemieland    Memorials 

As  Paul  on  every  shore  sought  God's  elect 
And  faced  unmoved  the  Mediterranean  gales, 
So  went  Makemie  forth  to  all  the  winds ; 
His  sloop  Tabitha  to  a  hundred  streams, 
His  faithful  Button  trudging  pathless  swamps. 
He  planted  Churches  as  he  planted  corn — 
Rehoboth,  Wicomico  and  Snow  Hill, 
Monokin,  Rockawalkin  and  Pitts  Creek — 
From  fair  Onancock  up  to  Buckingham, 
The  lilies  and  the  seabirds  tracked  his  course. 

I  hear  the  brave  forefathers  sing, 

I  hear  the  old-time  Psalm ; 
It  echoes  from  the  blue  Bayside 

On  up  to  Buckingham; 
By  cabin-fires,  in  woodland  glens, 

The  Gospel  sunrise  broke — 
Apostle  of  the  Land  of  Streams, 

The  Knox  of  Pocomoke ! 

The  Western  world  had  need  of  one  like  him, 
The  true,  historic,  Presbyterian  grit. 
The  persecutors  still  were  on  his  trail. 
To  feed  and  aggrandize  an  alien   faith, 
They  wrest  the  godless  tithes  from  all  he  had ; 
Corrupt  and  vile  Cornbury  in  the  North 
Arrested,  swindled,  flung  him  into  jail. 
America's  first  legal  fight  for  men's 
Religious  liberty,  he  waged  and  won. 
From  Barbadoes  to  Boston  flashed  the  light. 

Unflinching,  bold,  serene  he  stood 

And  braved  the  Despot's  frown; 
To  Pope  or  Prelate's  myrmedous 

He  threw  the  gauntlet  down ; 
With  sturdy  fist  he  struck  the  blow 

Which  rent  the  oppressor's  yoke — 
This  Calvin  of  the  Eastern  Shore, 

This  Knox  of  Pocomoke ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  yy 

Down  by  the  glistening  waves  of  Holden's  Creek 

Arose  a  model  home.     The  genial  winds 

From  Bay  and  Ocean  fanned  its  groves  and  flowers. 

There  fair  Naomi,  Virginia's  bonnie  brde, 

Enriched  his  life  and  gave  him  two  wee  girls, 

His  Bettie  and  his  Anne.     And  homes  like  that, 

All  Simon-pure,  of  Presbyterian  type, 

His  Calvanism  planted  far  and  wide — 

Sweet  sea-girt  homes  which  mothered  you  and  me, 

And  shone  like  stars  beneath  o'erarching  blue. 

Ye  cabins  of  the  Pioneers, 

Old-fashioned,   rude  and  quaint, 
You've  sown  these  ancient  graveyards 

With  many  a  grand  old  saint ; 
You  listened  and  your  firesides   warmed 

While  your  Makemie  spoke — 
High  Admiral  of  the  Chesapeake, 

The  Knox  of  Pocomoke ! 

Time  came,  predestinated  of  our  God, 

When  Northward  in  the  Town  of  Penn, 

A  church  Court  sat,  by  our  staunch  Leader  led — 

A  Western  bloom  from  Apostolic  gardens, 

Such  as  Paul  saw  ordaining  Timothy. 

The  wilderness  blossomed,  solitudes  were  glad, 

Quakers  looked  on  askance,  Anglicans  demurred. 

But  now  was  launched  a  force,  destined  to  leave 

The  Ritual  and  the  Mystic,  both  extremes,  benumbed, 

And  fill  the  land  from  Hither  to  Farther  Sea. 

All  hail,  ye  stout  old  Presbyters ! 

For  you  the  cross  and  crown ; 
Ordained  to  lead  America 

Toward  her  Millennial  dawn. 
Makemie  sees  and  heeds  the  sign — 

God's  time-piece  on   the  stroke ; 
The  Prophet  of  the  Eastern  Shore, 

The  Knox  of  Pocomoke  ! 


78  Makemieland    Memorials 

Upon  the  banks  of  Holden's  Creek  he  sleeps. 
The  sparkle  of  the  wavelets  tell  the  tale 
Of  crystal  River  and  the  Great  White  Throne. 
Since  then  what  multitudes  of  graves  on  all 
These  landscapes  rest,  tombs  of  the  fathers, 
Blood  of  Covenanter,  blood  of  Huguenot. 
Where  ever  soared  a  sounder  Creed  to  Heaven ! 
Take  off  thy  shoes ;  we  stand  on  holy  ground, 
The  burning  bush  burns  on  and  unconsumed. 

Fling  out  your  banner's  spotless  blue, 

The  flag  your  Fathers  bore 
Along  the  clear  transparent  streams 

Of  good  old  Eastern  Shore; 
The  spirit  of  heroic  sires 

To-day  we  re-invoke — 
The  Paul  of  Sea-girt  Accomack, 

The  Knox  of  Pocomoke ! 

Time  came  apace,  great  Revolution  days. 

Who  were  the  Tories?     Who  the  Patriots  then? 

Makemie's  sort  forever  in  the  van, 

The   Presbyterian  host  on  battle  line! 

John  Calvin  Founder  of  America — 

So  Ranke   wrote.      Father  of   Republics — 

So  Bancroft  wrote.     Presbyterian  women 

Sent  forth  their  sons  and  cheered  the  victors  on. 

Makemie's  daughter,  old  and  gray,  brave  Anne, 

In  Accomack  kept  freedom  to  the  fore ! 

She  lived  and  loved  and  passed  away 

Last  of  Makemie's  blood ; 
But  we,  his  children  in  the  faith, 

Stand  where  our  founders  stood. 
His  presence  still  pervades  the  pines 

And  breathes  by  brae  and  brook — 
Apostle  of  the  Chesapeake, 

The  Knox  of  Pocomoke ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  79 


IN  THAT  OLD  PEW. 

The  radiant  Sunday  mornings, 

And  the  balm  of  ocean  breeze; 
The  old  Brick  Sanctuary 

In  its  setting  of  oak  trees ; 
The  fathers  and  the  mothers 

And  the  solemn  songs  of  praise, 
The  tombstones  through  the  windows 

And  the  glamour  of  young  days ; 
How  many  blooms  there  came  to  birth, 
Found  nowhere  else  on  all  the  earth ! 

The  bending  of  the  Heavens, 

And  the  hearts  that  rise  and  soar; 
The  Gospel  trumpet  sounding 

And  the  tones  of  Gaylord  Moore; 
Most  beautiful  of  Mothers 

In  the  pew  ahead  of  ours, 
And  little  brown-eyed  girlie 

Like  a  peach  among  the  flowers ; 
And  while  the  people  prayed  and  praised 
The  dreaming  lad  sat  there  and  gazed ! 

While  the  Parson  told  of  angels 

In  the  Regions  far  and  fair, 
The  gazer  never  doubted 

But  the  Preacher  spake  of  her.; 
'Tis  said  her  mother  switched  her 

For  her  fidgets  and  her  mirth ; 
He  thought  those  Sunday  antics 

The  cunningest  on  earth  ; 
With  what  stored  gems  the  future  beamed, 
He  never  dreamed  and  no  one  dreamed ! 

She  grew  in  grace  and  beauty 

Like  a  lily  by  the  waters, 
For  Buckingham   had   always 

Her  white  flocks  of  peerless  daughters. 


80  Makemieland    Memorials 

A  tripping,  romping  tom-boy — 

What  miracles  in  life ! 
That  scamp  to  be  a  Preacher, 

That  lass  a  Preacher's  wife ! 
All  loved  the  lassie  more  and  more, 
Because  she  loved  both  rich  and  poor ! 

Winds  wrecked  the  old  Brick  Temple 

And  closed  the  Temple  gates; 
Winds  blew  the  frisky  youngster 

Far  away  to  other  States; 
He  had  his  share  of  sweethearts 

Wherever  sweethearts  grew, 
But  ne'er  forgot  that  lodestar 

Just  in  front  of  that  old  pew ; 
Magnolia  grove  or  Western  Plain, 
His  boyhood's  light  would  rise  again ! 

His  life  was  full  of  labors 

And  full  of  Preacher  cares, 
And  on  and  on  went  flying 

All  the  swiftness  of  the  years; 
Once  more  back  home  returning, 

A  lonely  bachelor — 
And  he  was  in  the  pulpit, 

And  she  was  in  the  choir — 
The  coals  blazed  up  and,  sparkling  through, 
The  lass  who'd  sat  in  that  old  pew! 

Makemie  won  Naomi, 

His  fair  Virginia  bride ; 
This  other  won  his  Ellen 

And  he  envied  none  beside; 
For  through  two  hundred  Summers, 

In  the  realms  of  wholesome  lives 
Old  Buckingham's  rare  daughters, 

Have  made  the  best  of  wives; 
They  gather  sweets  like  honey-bees, 
They  grow  like  lautels  'neath  pine  trees! 


Makemieland    Memorials  8i 

And  good  old  people  lauded 

And  children's  hearts  caressed; 
She  doubled  his  influence 

In  the  Southland  and  the  West; 
And  everybody  praised  her 

And  loved  her  more  and  more, 
For  she,  as  in  sweet  girlhood, 

Kept  on  loving  rich  and  poor; 
And  thus  she  won  and  thus  she  grew, 
My  fairy  of  the  old-time  pew ! 

Out  yonder  gently  sleeping, 

Where  no  turmoil  ever  mars, 
She  rests  beside  her  Mother 

Underneath  the  Western  stars ; 
And  cheerful  bloom.''  above  her 

Are  wreathing  diadems, 
And  blue-birds  and  the  robins 

Are  warbling  requiems ; 
Her  life  a  song,  her  soul  a  psalm, 
The  child  of  ancient  Buckingham ! 

To-day  the  Ocean  breezes 

Seem  whispering  out  here; 
The  balsams  of  the  pine-trees 

Come  pulsing  through  the  air; 
Beside  the  grassy  hillock 

I  sit  and  dream  my  dreams, 
And  catch  anew  the  echoes 

Of  the  thrill  of  old-time  hymns; 
And  'mid  the  dim  haze,  soothingly, 
That  lassie  still  ahead  of  me! 

The  waiting  and  the  waiting, 

The  years  now  moving  slow  ; 
The  yearning  and  the  yearning 

And  the  forms  of  long  ago; 
The  old  familiar  faces, 

The  lone  and  broken  home; 


82  Makemieland    Memorials 

The  fadeless  hearts  up  yonder 

Who  are  beckoning  us  to  come; 
The  home-like  gates  of  Paradise, 
The  congregations  of  the  skies ! 

I  bring  my  Easter  lilies 

And  lay  them  by  her  side; 
She  loved  them  well  while  living, 

She  was  like  them  when  she  died ! 
It  is  coming,  surely  coming, 

And  'twill  not  be  very  long, 
The  glorious  Resurrection 

And  the  Coronation  song; 
The  skies  of  blue  and,  smiling  through, 
The  lass  in  front  of  our  old  pew ! 


TO  OUR  JOHN. 


Written  for  the  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Mr.  John  S.  McMaster, 
Great-Grandson  of  Rev.  Samuel  McMaster,  Madam  Holden's 
Pastor  and  also  of  Rehoboth  for  thirty  years — Rehoboth's  longest 
Pastorate.     Our  John  is  a  true  friend  of  the  Makemie  Churches. 


Come,  ye  balmiest   Southern  breezes, 
Take  and  bear  this  message  on — 

Wreaths  of  warm  congratulations 
To  old  Worcester's  favorite  son — 

Greetings  from  his  native  scenes, 

His  loved  Land  of  Evergreens. 

Never  was  there  son  more  loyal 
To  the  soil  from  which  he  sprung; 

Never   heart   of   Eastern    Shoreman 
Quite  so  true  and  ever  young; 

Worthy  his  McMaster  line, 

Son  of  Holly  and  the  Pine. 


Makemieland    Memorials  83 

So  he  came,  our  little  Jonnie, 

To  the  classic  Pocomoke, 
High  ideals  bred  within  him 

And  the  fibre  of  the  oak; 
Thus  the  budding  life  begun, 
McMaster  mixed  with  Stevenson. 

'Mid  the  Laurel  and  the  Myrtle, 

Worshipping  at  Nature'?  Shrine, 
Growing  'mid  the  Holly  berries, 

Breathing  balsams  of  the  Pine — 
So  life's   currents   ebb  and  flow, 
Child  of  fifty  years  ago. 

And  the  sheen  has  never  left  him 

Of  the  Land  that  gave  him  birth; 
E'en  the  quaint  old  turkey-buzzards 

Have  no  peers  in  all  the  earth ! 
Are  they  not,  as  high  they  rise, 
Jonnie's  Birds  of  Paradise? 

Sure  enough  when  Cupid  struck  him, 

And  the   deeper  thrills   awoke, 
Queen  nor  Countess  could  allure  him 

From  the  lass  of  Pocomoke; 
None  but  Janie,  only  she, 
Blooming  down  at  Beverly. 

Dennis   and   McMaster   mingling, 

High   ambitions   in   their  veins, 
Two  young  Princes,  John  and  Alfred, 

Legatees   of  blood  and  brains — 
So  he  sits  between  his  heirs, 
Patriarch  of  fifty  years  ! 

And  old  Worcester  sends  her  greetings 

And  old  Pocomoke  his  love — 
That  he'll  live  another  fifty, 

Crowned  with  blessings  from  above, 
While  the  Noble  still  inspires, 
Worthy  son  of  worthy  sires ! 


84  Makemieland    Memorials 

Now  a  word  from  old  Rehoboth : — 
"Honored  be  the  name  McMaster; 

Richest  benedictions  on  him, 
Scion  of  my  cherished  Pastor ; 

Like  my  Samuel  may  he  stand 

A  Star  of  our  Makemie  land !" 


REHOBOTH  TO  HER  KIDS. 

Rehoboth  with  her  Bible  name, 

The  hazy  past  upon  her, 
There  seated  by  the  riverside 

Enthroned   in   fadeless   honor ; 
Departed  hours  and  present  hours 

Converging  there  serenely, 
As  winsome  as  in  girlhood's  days, 

And  still  robust  and  queenly. 

"Call  in  my  children,"  thus  she  spake, 

Her  bosom  fond  and  truthful. 
For  old  folks  love  their  little  ones, 

And  thus  keep  sweet  and  youthful ; 
"Call  in  my  children;  bless  their  hearts, 

White  seagulls  by  the  waters; 
I  saw  you  in  your  pantalets, 

My  blessed  little  daughters ! 

"The  Lady  Mary  Somerset, 

Her  praises  widely  spoken 
Entailed  her  name  on  this  glad  clime, 

Your  birthplace,   fair  Monokin ; 
Bright  land  of  noble  womanhood, 

Of  blossoms,  birds  and  fairies, 
Where  our  Makemie  planted  well 

Our  seven  Sanctuaries. 


Makemieland    Memorials  S5 

"The  Princess  Anne,  ere  long  a  Queen, 

Bestowed  her  name  upon  thee ; 
John  Calvin  when  Makemie  came, 

Entranced  thy  heart  and  won  thee ; 
And  never  through  succeeding  years 

Shall  Calvin's  grip  be  broken, 
While  men  like  Watson  stand  for  Christ 

In  orthodox  Monokin. 

"Pitts  Creek,  esconsed  by  Beaver  Dam, 

'Mid  memories  rich  and  golden, 
One  of  Makemie's  favorites 

And  pride  of  Madam  Holden ; 
Well  served  through  Revolution  times 

By  sturdy  Sam  McMaster, 
And  served  by  yet  another  Mac, 

McCullough,  faithful  Pastor. 

1 

"This  not  the  ground  for  briars  and  thorns, 

No  place  for  croaks  and  croakers ; 
There's   Grace  enough   for  country  Church 

And  for  the  Pocomokers ; 
May  God  the  old-time  ardor  give 

And  constantly  renew  it ; 
If  any  saint  can  keep  'em  straight, 

Aunt  Betsy  Jones  can  do  it! 

"Snow  Hill,  I  send  my  girl  a  kiss 

Upon  the  sparkling  river ; 
The  God  of  ancient  Adam   Spence 

Still  be  thy  God  forever ! 
Where  Samuel  Davis  preached  the  Word 

And  showed  the  open  Heaven, 
And  Dr.  North  dispenses  still 

The  same  old  Gospel  leaven. 

"You  have  illustrious  pedigree, 

My  genial  little  Madam; 
No  use  to  try  to  stretch  it  out 

To  ages  back  of  Adam; 


86  Makemieland    Memorials 

'Twill  get  the  charming  history 

All  puckered  in  a  pother, 
If  Daughterhood  upsets  the  dates 

And  plays  her  Mother's  Mother ! 

"Wicomico,  name  borne  of  old 
By  bright-eyed  Indian  lassies, 

Where  still  the  water-lilies  grow 
Among  the  river  grasses; 

Where  erst  McNish,  Makemie's  boy, 
His  Gospel  wand  was  swaying, 

Where   Beale   flings   out  his   eloquence 
And  Riegart  keeps  on  praying. 

.     "Survivor  of  the  saints  of  old 

And  heir  of  Rockawalkin, 
You  too  should  be  a  saint,  my  dear, 

And  typical  Blue  Stockin' ; 
Our  only  Church  in  that  wide  field, 

You  ought,  by  God's  good  bounty, 
To  win  and  Presbyterianize 

That  whole  delightful  county ! 

"Now  Buckingham,  my  Buckingham, 

Come  nestle  to  my  bosom; 
A  virgin  on  a  virgin  coast, 

My  lonely  seaside  blossom; 
A  native  of  the  ancient  soil 

By  William  Stevens  given; 
There  seated  by  the  upper  road 

To  show  the  road  to  Heaven ! 

"Where  Bancroft  wings  his  rhetoric 

And  fulminates  his  gestures, 
And  pictures  lustrous  crowns  of  gold 

And  paints  the  Heavenly  vestures ; 
And  lauds  the  Seer  of  Holden's  Creek 

And  shows  new  splendors  coming; 
Dear  Buckingham,  with  Temple  fair, 

The  blossom  still  in  blooming!" 


Makemieland    Memorials  87 

Thus  old  Rehoboth  still  adorns 

Hereditary  stories ; 
The  humor  of  her  youthful  days 

Still  mingling  with  her  glories; 
Fresh  benedictions  on  her  girls 

Perennial  love  attesting; 
Her  heart  still  down  at  Holden's   Creek 

Where  her  old  Hero's  resting ! 


EASTERN   SHORE  FERNERIES. 

The  Birdies  in  the  tree-tops, 

The   Froggies  in  the  stream, 
Are  singing  to  their  sweethearts 

Of  Love's  immortal  dream; 
And  Love  was  in  the  meadows, 

And  Love  was  in  the  air, 
When  Nell  and  I  went  hunting 
For  the  dainty  Maiden  Hair; 
Hunting  ferns,  hunting  ferns, 
And  Love  was  everywhere, 
When  Nell  and  I  went  hunting, 
For  the  dainty  Maiden  Hair. 

The  robin  sang  his  nuptials 

Among  the  myrtle  boughs; 
The  thrush  was  trilling  ditties 
Beside  his  chirping  spouse; 
The    earth   was   gay   with   weddings 

And  life  was  void  of  care, 
When  Nell  and  I  went  hunting 
For  the  dainty  Maiden  Hair; 
Hunting  ferns,  hunting   ferns, 
And  Love  was  everywhere, 
When  Nell  and  I  went  hunting, 
For  the  dainty  Maiden  Hair. 

Then  one  of  Nelly's  tresses 
Blew  soft  across  my  cheek — - 


88  Makemieland    Memorials 

Ah  'twas  a  mystic  message 

Two  souls  began  to  speak; 
For  close  we  walked  together 
And  never  a  happier  pair, 
When  Nell  and  I  went  hunting 
For  the  dainty  Maiden  Hair; 
Hunting  ferns,   hunting   ferns, 
And  Love  was  everywhere, 
When  Nell  and  I  went  hunting, 
For  the  dainty  Maiden  Hair. 

We  heard  a  dove  bewailing 
His  little  murdered  mate; 
On  Nelly's  cheek  a  tear-drop 

Fell  for  the  mourner's  fate; 
Ah !  little  were  we  dreaming 

That  ere  another  year, 
Would  rest  beneath  the  graveyard 
My  little  Maiden's  Hair; 
Hunting  ferns  nevermore, 

And  sadness  everywhere — 
Torn    heartstrings    dimly   groping, 
For   the   darling   Maiden's   Hair ! 


OLD  REHOBOTH'S  HOME-SONG. 


Air — Maryland,  My  Maryland. 

Rehoboth,  we  thy  children  claim, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland, 
Our  birthright  by  thine  altar-flame, 
Mother  Church  and  Motherland ; 
Rehoboth,  fair  and  fadeless  name, 
Rehoboth,  with  thine  ancient  fame, 
Of  old  and  evermore  the  same, 
Mother  Church  and  Motherland. 


Makemieland    Memorials  89 

Through  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland, 
The  Way  of  Life  has  long  been  told. 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland; 
Rehoboth,  where  thy  saints  of  old 
First  saw  the  azure  flag  unrolled, 
We  still  are  nestling  to  thy  fold, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland. 

Here  our  Makemie  stood  and  spoke, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherjand, 
And  first  the  Western  wilds  awoke, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland, 
And  far  and  wide  the  echoes  broke 
Through  wilderness  of  pine  and  oak 
And  up  and  down  the  Pocomoke, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland. 

Lone  exiles  from  beyond  the  seas, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland, 
Sung  David's   Psalms  beneath  these  trees, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland ; 
Assembled  here  on  bended  knees, 
Those  Presbyterian  refugees 
Have  left  us  precious  legacies, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland. 

Rehoboth,  we  thy  children  stand, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland, 
With  plighted  hearts  and  hand  in  hand, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland ; 
We  gather  here  a  loyal  band 
To  love  and  labor  to  the  end 
For  God  and  our  Makemieland, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland. 

Away  from  these  historic  scenes, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland. 
No  flight  of.  years  our  bosom  weans, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland; 


90  Makemieland    Memorials 

Where  faithful  Zion  yet  convenes, 
Shall  there  not   still  be  kings  and  queens 
In  God's  own  Land  of  Evergreens, 
Mother  Church  and  Motherland? 

To  Pioneers  who  here  have  met, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland, 
We  bare  our  brow  and  own  our  debt, 

Mother  Church  and  Motherland; 
And  nevermore  will  we  forget 
The  ancient  Shrines  abiding  yet 
And  bonnie  braes  of  Somerset, 
Mother  Church  and  Motherland. 


METHODISM  BOOMING  IN  POCOMOKE. 


Congratulations  to  Dr.  W.  L.  S.  Murray. 

Here  I  am,  Sir;  just  awoke; 
New-arrived  on  Pocomoke; 
Dashing  Apostolic  lad, 
Big  Exhorter  like  my  Dad ; 
Theologian  of  the  age, 
Bishop  of  the  Parsonage; 
Landing  in  a  sort  of  flurry — 
Duplicated  Dr.  Murray ! 

Well,  in  time  I  looked  around, 
Diagnozed  my  camping-ground; 
Saw  a  fine  old  chap  come  in, 
Every  feature  all  a-grin ; 
Grand  old  fellow — beautiful — 
Two  feet  taller  by  the  rule; 
And  I  wish  that  you  could  see  him 
Clap  his  hands  and  sing  Te  Deum ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  ot 

Had  you  seen  him  splurge  about, 

Cry  Amen,  Amen,  and  shout, 

Any  stupid  could  have  guessed 

Daddy  was  a  Methodist; 

Even  Wesley  missed  such  joy — 

Wesley  never  had  a  boy, 

Never  owned  a  little  lambie, 

With  a  Mammie  like  my  Mammie ! 

Then  my  Dad  you  ought  to  see 
Making  sermons  full  of  me! 
This  the  Text  he'll  ventilate, 
Genesis  First  and  Twenty-Eight  ; 
Urging  people  ere  they  die, 
To  fulfill  their  destiny, 
Duly  paired  and  duly  mated, 
Little  boys  predestinated ! 

Jolly  as  a  kid  can  be, 

I'm  his  miniature  D.D., 

And  I  mean  as  days  pass  on, 

Grow  into  a  worthy  son; 

Smooth  their  pathway,  soothe  their  cares, 

Brighten  all  their  future  years; 

Keep  their  bosoms  from  all  worry, 

Be  a  Junior  Dr.  Murray! 

Methodism  is  all  right, 
Ties  a  fellow  up  right  tight ; 
But  there's  one  thing  certain-sure, 
One  thing  that  I  won't  endure ; 
This  I'll  do  when  I'm  a  man, 
Turn  a  Presbyterian, 
If  Dad's  stomach  plays  the  dickens, 
And  he  eats  up  all  the  chickens ! 


92  Makemieland    Memorials 


A  TRIBUTE 


To  Daniel  C.  Hudson. 

"Blessed  are  they  which  are  called  unto  the  Mar- 
riage Supper  of  the  Lamb." 

'Twas  Sabbath  afternoon,  'neath  Texan  skies, 

The  tidings  came.     Exiles  from  the  Eastern  Shore, 

We'd  sat  and  filled  the  hours  with  Maryland, 

And  talked  of  Berlin  friends  and  Berlin  loves. 

That  morn  about  the  Table  of  our  Lord 

We'd  gathered  'mid  its  sweetest  memories 

And  thought  of  this  memorial  earthly  Feast 

As  close  of  kin  to  that  spread  Feast  above, 

The  Guests  on  earth  and  Guests  on  High  the  same, 

Then  bursts  the  startling  news  that  Dan  was  gone ! 

The  hand  that  held  the  letter 

Was  shaken  for  awhile  ; 
The  heart  was  fluttering  backward 

O'er  many  a  weary  mile ; 
A  new  mound  in  the  graveyard, 

The  mourners  and  the  tears — 
My  Dan  of  early  childhood, 

My  Dan  of  all  the  years ! 

Yes,  he  the  nearest  friend  I  ever  had, 

Twin  brothers  from  the  first  and  all  the  way — 

Parental   friendships,   pure,   inherited ; 

His  home  forever  mine  and  my  home  his ; 

Same  studies  in  the  good  old  Sunday  School, 

Same  studies  in  the  old  Academy; 

Two  opposites  converging  and  converged, 

Playmates,  schoolmates,  classmates,  wedded  mates — 

And  now  he's  gone  on  up  and  joined  the  Feast 

Above — the  Marriage  Supper  of  the  Lamb ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  93 

There  never  was  a  better 

Upon  the  old  school-grounds; 
I've  never  met  a  nobler 

In  all  my  pilgrim  rounds ; 
And  when  my  rasher  nature 

Would  some  sad  bent  reveal, 
My  Dan  was  then  my  conscience, 

And  Dan  my  balance-wheel. 

Trappe  Creek,  the  shimmerings  of  thy  waves  return 

And  ripple  through  the  mazes  of  the  past. 

I  hear  the  seabirds  as  they  come  and  go, 

Kingfisher's  cry  and  ospreys  on  their  perch, 

The  bass  of  Ocean  over  to  the  East; 

And  there  we  sat  in  revery,  Dan  and  I, 

Beneath  the  shade  of  my  wild-cherry  tree, 

And  talked  of  books  and  sweethearts  and  the  birds 

And  plans  for  life  and  lilies  there  afloat — 

Ourselves  afloat  upon  the  outbound  tides. 

And  all  was  bright  and  dreamy, 

And  nature  was  at  rest, 
And  boys'  imaginations 

Careering  at  their  best ; 
And  life  was  full  of  promise, 

And  treasures  on  ahead, 
And  we  the  two  knights-errant 

Went  forth  by  fairies  led. 

And  Dan  and  I  together  beau'd  the  girls, 
In  dear  old  courting  days,  romantic  days, 
When  in  Love's  Paradise  between  the  Bays 
Fair  faces  sweeter  blushed,  tones  richer  thrilled, 
Than  ever  in  the  broad,  wide  world  beside. 
We  knew  each  other's  secrets,  shared  the  dreams, 
And  learned  to  scribble  verses  by  the  foot. 
And  then  the  rare  day  came,  the  day  of  days, 
When  he  was  by  my  side  and  helped  me  win 
The  model   Preacher's  Wife  of  all  the  world ! 


94  Makemieland    Memorials 

That  blessed  Tuesday  morning, 

We  knew  full  well  that  he 
Would  make  a  better  husband 

Than  poor  old  I  could  be; 
That  somewhere  in  the  future 

His  heart  would  reach  its  bloom, 
And  then  the  happy  groomsman 

Turn  to  a  happy  groom ! 

My  bridal  day  found  Dan  a  Ruling  Elder 
And  me  a  Teaching  Elder.     I  knew  the  hour, 
Our  souls  a-touch,  when  he  had  come  to  Christ. 
The  day  we  joined  the  Church  we  spent  alone 
In  prayer  among  the  graves  of  Buckingham. 
Together  at  Communion,  heart  to  heart, 
We  sat  and  took  the  hallowed  bread  and  wine, 
Dispensed  and  blessed  by  good  Alanson  Haines, 
Saintliest  of  men.     Now  they  have  shaken  hands 
Around  the  Marriage  Supper  of  the  Lamb ! 

Ah !  surely  it  was  glorious 

When  those  two  holy  men, 
Up  there  amid  the  splendors, 

Had  met  in  love  again ; 
Perhaps  'twas  our  old  Pastor 

Who  welcomed  this  new  Guest 
And  led  his  old  friend  Daniel 

To  that  Eternal  Feast ! 

I  never  thought  of  him  as  going  first. 

I  fail  to  think  it  yet.    I  can't  recall 

The  town,  the  Church,  the  home,  and  he  not  there ! 

The  streets  which  hear  his  well-known  steps  no  more, 

Seem  void  and  dumb.     For  me  the  blank  world  narrows. 

But  it  is  well!     Why  should  promotion  lag? 

Approach  the  Throne,  O  Daniel  well-beloved, 

And  take  thy  crown !     The  years  would  soon  have  bent 

Thy  form,  and  wintry  storms  grown  chill  and  harsh. 

The  Springtime's  come — the  Bridal  of  the  Lamb ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  '•)•) 

You've  left  a  spotless  character 

To  gladden  and  abide; 
We  catch  the  sheen  of  halos 

Upon  the  other  side; 
The  name  of  Daniel  Hudson 

Not  soon  will  dim  and  die, 
And  we  will  love  each  other  still, 

My  good  old  Dan  and  I ! 


THE    LAST    MOSQUITO. 

Upon  the  utmost  verge  of  time, 

The  last  mosquito, 
I  sit  and  hum  my  farewell  rhyme, 

The  last  mosquito; 
I  muse  upon  our  early  prime 
Within  our  sweet  old  favorite  clime, 
And  mourn  our  fate  in  buzz  sublime, 

The  last  mosquito. 

One  of  your  poets  sang  the  strain, 

Like  this  mosquito, 
Of  one  disconsolate  last  man, 

Like  this  mosquito; 
He  made  it  sad  as  poets  can, 
Deserted  of  his  whole  dead  clan, 
As  lonely  as  a  pelican, 

Or  this  mosquito. 

And  so  I  sing  our  requiem  too, 

The  last  mosquito, 
Our  lustrous  past  in  full  review, 

The  last  mosquito; 
In  every  bog,  old  world  or  new, 
A  cosmopolitan  I  flew 
As  widely  as  the  Wandering  Jew, 

The  last  mosquito. 


g6  Makemieland    Memorials 

My  pedigree  is  old  and  dim, 

This  last  mosquito, 
Like  other  family  trees  so  prim, 

This  last  mosquito; 
Way  back  when  Adam  took  that  whim 
And  listened  to  the  Serpent  grim, 
And  bit  that  apple,  I  bit  him, 

This  same  mosquito. 

When  Noah  took  that  sparkling  booze, 

This  same  mosquito 
Just  nipped  him  on  his  ruddy  nose, 

This  same  mosquito ; 
When  Abram  fibbed  like  silly  goose, 
I  came  a-singing  from  the  ooze, 
And  bit  him  as  I  bite  the  Jews, 

This  same  mosquito. 

I  took  my  taste  of  Eleazar, 

This  old  mosquito, 
I  sampled  Nebuchadenezzer, 

This  old  mosquito ; 
I  stuck  my  probe  in  old  Bellshazzer, 
And   punctured   many  an   old   star-gazer, 
And  smacked  my  lips  on  Czar  and  Kaizer, 

This  old  mosquito. 

Columbus  sailed  the  wild  seas  o'er, 

But  this  mosquito 
Had  far  outstripped  him  long  before, 

This  same  mosquito ; 
Alert  new  regions  to  explore, 
I'd  heard  of  marsh  and  fen  and  moor 
All  glorious  on  the  Eastern  Shore, 

This  same  mosquito. 

And  so  to  this  fair  clime  he  sails, 

This  spry  mosquito, 
Winged  by  the  trans-atlantic  gales, 

This  same  mosquito ; 


Makemieland    Memorials  97 

Among  the  rills  and  ferny  dales, 
Along  the  moist  and  grassy  vales, 
A  Paradise  for  wiggle-tales 
And  this  mosquito. 

When  your  Makemie  came  at  last, 

This  same  mosquito 
Was  ready  for  a  full  repast, 

This  same  mosquito ; 
As  he  the  streams  and  rivers  traced 
And  all  the  swamps  and  marshes  faced, 
No  blood  could  rival  it  in  taste 

For  this  mosquito. 

His  light  complexion,  rich  as  roses, 

To  old  mosquito 
A  mighty  dainty  feast  discloses 

For  this  mosquito ; 
And  when  the  Preacher  talked  of  Moses 
And  delt  his  Calvinistic  doses, 
I'd  take  a  whack  at  his  proboscis, 

This  same  mosquito. 

With  Vandal  from  the  other  States, 

This  sly  mosquito 
Has  his  own  fun  in  later  dates, 

This  cute  mosquito ; 
If  rather  much  he  arrogates, 
Or  ancient  graves  he  desecrates, 
I  pounce  on  him  with  all  my  mates, 

Shrewd  old  mosquito. 

Alas,  mosquito  days  are  done, 

Poor  old  mosquito ; 
Our  fate  is  sealed ;  our  tribes  are  gone, 

Poor  old  mosquito ; 
A  Jersey  City  Paragon., 
Discounting  even  Edison, 
Our  live,  invincible  John 


98  Makemieland    Memorials 

Invents  some  magic  benison, 
Insecticide  phenomenon, 
To  put  all  drawbacks  on  the  run, 
Mosquito  empires  overthrown, 
And  make  this  Shore  an  Eden  zone- 
So  here  I  am  the  only  one, 
The  last  mosquito ! 


THE    LADY    MARY. 

The  Lady  Mary  Somerset, 

Lord  Baltimore's  sweet  sister, 
Sat  in  her  home  across  the  Bay. 

Where  seaside  breezes  kissed  her ; 
The  fireflies  in  the  twilight  haze 

Were  lighting  up  their  torches ; 
The  orioles  were  in  the  pines, 

The  frog-choirs  in  the  marshes. 

And  Maryland  was  very  young, 

A  lassie  in  short  dresses, 
And  far  extended  everywhere 

The  pathless  wildernesses ; 
Throughout  St.  Mary's  little  town, 

Her  loveliness  diffusing. 
Our  Lady  Mary  Somerset 

Was  silently  musing. 

Her  Ladyship  was  very  fair 

And  good  and  kindly-hearted. 
And  to  the  needy  immigrants 

Her  bounties   were   imparted  ; 
The  Colonists  all  loved  her  well 

And  joined  to  do  her  honor; 
And  now  her  thoughts  ran  pleasantly, 

The  evening-spell  upon  her. 


Makemieland    Memorials  99 

'They  tell  me."  mused  her  Ladyship, 

"That  over  to  the  leeward, 
A  County  rare  they've  named  for  me 

Between  the  Bay  and  Seaboard ; 
A    Land   of   streams   and   brooks,   and 
where 

The  Indian  lingo's  spoken — 
As  Annamessex,  Pocomoke, 

Wicomico,  Monokni. 

"I  hear  of  many  kings  and  queens 

Their  names  a  forest  chorus — 

Weegnonah,  Matchacoopah  too 

And  Weocomoconus ; 
And  Currimuccas,  WynicacOj 

Wasposson  and  Tanguaton, 
Morumsco  James,  Nuswuddux  Dick, 

Skifortum  and  Ringtaughton. 

"But   whiter  queens  and  whiter  kings 

Are  born  among  the  bushes, 
Fine  royal  lads  on  Pocomoke 

And  girls  with  royal  blushes ; 
For  Pocomoke  among  her  groves 

Has  nobler  aims  and  uses 
For  other  boys  and  other  maids 

Than  copper-hued  pappooses. 

"Your  Lady  Mary  Somerset, 

Whose   name  your  County   fancies. 
Sees  planted  by  the  riverside 

Fair  homes  and  choice  romances ; 
Aspiring  hearts  and  worthy  deeds 

Adorning  history's  pages, 
To  gild  the  name  of  Somerset 

And  shine  on  down  the  ages. 

"Lo,  far  along  the  coming  years 
The  white-men's  tootsy-wootsies — 


ioo  Makemieland    Memorials 

The    Beauchamps,     Tulls     and    Whit- 
tingtons, 
The  Truitts,  Grays  and  Knottses ; 
The  Matthews  kids  and  Wilkinses, 

And  Powells  by  the  dozens, 
The  Tilghmans,  Warrens,  Paynes  and 
Longs 
And   all   the   Dryden   Cousins. 

"Successors  to  the  Indian  Chiefs, 

Skifortum  and  Ringtaughton, 
Behold  the  tripple  Eldership, 

Your  Davis,   Polk  and  Braughton  ; 
And  showing  younger  men  the  art 

Of  winning  wives  resplendent, 
A  pillar  in  the  Church  and  School, 

The  burly  Superintendent. 

"And    there    the   sacred   Temple    stands 

Beside  the   sparkling   River 
To  gladden  all  those  rural  homes 

And  light  the  land  forever ; 
And  old  Rehoboth  long  shall  live 

An  honor  to  her  Founder, 
And  filial  hearts  and  filial  hopes 

Forevermore  surround  her  !" 


THE    EXILE'S  SONG. 

Old  Eastern  Shore,  dear  Eastern  Shore, 

An  exiled  son  of  thine 
Sends  loyal  greetings  from  afar 
And  loves  to  call  thee  mine ; 
Land  of  the  laurels  and  the  pine, 
Land   of  the   spicy   fox-grape   vine, 
Land  where  the  water-lilies  twine, 
'Mid  maiden's  heart  as  pure  ! 

Fair  Eastern  Shore,  rare  Eastern  Shore, 
My  fatherland,  my  Maryland, 
My  dreamland  and  my  fairyland, 
Delightsome  Eastern  Shore ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  ioi 

i 
Old  Eastern   Shore,   dear  Eastern   Shore, 

The  heart  is  sometimes  sad, 
And  oft  leans  back  to  days  of  yore — 

A  little  barefoot  lad  ; 
Land  of  the  oyster-banks  and  shad, 
Land  of  the  terrapin  and  crab, 
Land  where  the  welcomes  make  all  glad — ■ 
With  larders  brimming  o'er; 

Fair  Eastern  Shore,  rare  Eastern  Shore, 
My  fatherland,  my  Maryland, 
My  dreamland  and  my  fairyland, 
Delightsome  Eastern  Shore ! 

Old   Eastern   Shore,   dear  Eastern   Shore, 

Thy  glories  I  will  speak — 
The  Ocean's  sweetheart  evermore 

The  bride  of  Chesapeake ; 
The  beaches  and  the  smiling  creek. 
The  curlew's  song,  the  osprey's  shriek, 
I  listen — teardrops  course  my  cheek, 
And  recollections  soar; 

Fair  Eastern  Shore,  rare  Eastern  Shore, 
My  fatherland,  my  Maryland, 
My  dreamland  and  my  fairyland, 
Delightsome  Eastern  Shore ! 

Old   Eastern   Shore,   dear   Eastern   Shore, 

Loved  by  no  feeble  race ; 
Ancestral  blood  distilling  pure 

From  far  Colonial  days ; 
Old  Churches  where  our  kinsmen  praise, 
Old  graveyards  where  tradition  strays. 
Old  homes  where  in  life's  twilight  haze 
Skies  smile  with  open  door ; 

Fair  Eastern  Shore,  rare  Eastern  Shore, 
My  fatherland,  my  Maryland, 
My  dreamland  and  my  fairyland, 
Delightsome  Eastern  Shore! 


102  Makemielano    Memorials 

WILLIAM    STEVENS 

Beside  dark-bosomed  Pocomoke,  the  stream 

Ploughed  by  the  venturous  keel  of  Captajn  Smith, 

Virginia's  knightliest  knight,  at  early  dawn 

Of  young  America  and  the  century, 

Here  I,  the  trusted  friend  of  Baltimore, 

And  all  the  people,  have  found  full  room  to  live 

And  breathe  and  die  and  here  I  shall  be  buried; 

I,  William  Stevens,  Judge,  Deputy  Lieutenant, 

And  all  those  things — but,  Titles  all  aside, 

I  like  plain  William  Stevens  far  the  best ! 

In  this  God-given  country 

Must  merit  reign  alone ; 
And  manhood  built  on  manhood 

Shall  win  and  hold  its  own; 
Where  God's  Decree  is  planting 

A  new  and  nobler  race, 
The  name  of- William  Stevens 

Shall  carve  itself  a  place. 

In  Albion  born,  the  Shire  of  Buckingham 

Was  all  too  cramped ;  aristocratic  blood 

And  all  that   stuff  on   top  and  worth  suppressed. 

My  youngest  brother  Richard,   splendid  boy, 

And  I  his  favorite — well,  the  old  world  galled ; 

Its  yokes  and  trammels  did  not  suit  us  boys ; 

The   Church-and-State  intolerance  and  hate. 

The   privileged   Class   which   held   its   betters   down : 

And  so  we  chafed  and  heard  of  this  fair  clime, 

Land  broad  enough  for  men  and  souls  to  grow ! 

To  the  voices  of  the  pine-trees, 

We  youngsters  turned  our  gaze; 
To  the  calls  of  light  and  freedom 

And  the  skies  between  the  Bays ; 
All  hail,  my  little  River, 

Future  haunts  for  noble  men. 
And  the  warbles  of  the  robin 

And  the  carols  of  the  wren 


Makemieland    Memorials  103 

There's  inspiration  in  these  Western  skies, 

There's    stimulus    in   breadth   and   width   and   grandeur. 

In  Sixteen  Sixty  Five  along  this  stream 

I  patented  my  grounds  and  called  the  name 

Rehoboth.     Room  and  space  for  good  and  true. 

Room  and  space  for  all  that  are  oppressed : 

For  men  who  want  a  chance  to  rise  and  climb  ; 

For  all  clean  souls  who'd  have  the  conscience  free. 

So  they  but  love  their  God  and  fellow  men. 

And  guard  the  rights  of  all,  this  home  is-  theirs ! 

Welcome,  old  Church  of  England 

And  plaintive  Liturgy ; 
Welcome,  our  Robert  Maddux 

And  old-time  minstrelsy; 
Welcome,  ye  quaint  old  Quakers 

And  mystical  George   Fox ; 
Welcome,  O  brave  Makemie, 

And  all  his  orthadox ! 

I  saw  my  Presbyterian  neighbors  flung 
Across  the  seas  by  persecutors'  hand — 
Imprisoned,  impoverished,  thumbscrew,  fagot, 
Or  sold  as  chattels ;  men  of  solid  worth 
Here  held  as  servants  by  far  baser  breeds. 
I  saw  these  scattered  sheep  unsheperded. 
Their  starving  souls  outreaching  for  the  Word. 
I  seized  my  pen  and  wrote  their  earnest  plea 
To  those  at  home,  the  stern  Scotch-Irish  seers 
Beyond   the   waves,    there   in   the   Emerald   Isle. 

The  daylight  came  in  splendor, 

The  happy  morning  broke  ; 
Makemie's  barque  came  gliding 

On  up  the  Pocomoke ; 
The  tidings  flew   like  lightning. 

Around  and  all  about, 
And  far  and  wide  went  ringing 

That   Presbyterian   shout ! 


104  Makemieland    Memorials 

Young  Francis  was  all  right.    I  like  the  youth. 

His   blue    eyes,    full,    sincere;    his   views    four-square; 

A  man  of  force,  a  fitting  pioneer — 

The  kind  to  lay  foundations  and  build  up. 

Just  here  he  stood  and  spoke.     His  broad  Scotch  tones, 

As  plaintive  as  a  song,  went  nestling  deep 

To  many  tearful  hearts,  all  full  of  home. 

For  them  he  linked  the  new  world  with  the  old 

And  linked  this  world  with  Heaven.    Our  Eastern  Shore 

Became  for  all  a  suburb  of  the  skies ! 

The  angels  never  witnessed, 

A  gladder,  happier  flock; 
We  laughed  to  hear  him  calling 

Our  river  Poccamok! 
No  matter  what  he  called  it, 

They  were  as  men  that  dream, 
His  voice  like  Heavenly  music 

To  those  along  the  stream ! 

My  life  will  not  be  long.     But  two  brief  years 
After  this  land  was  mine,  here  in  this  house, 
My  brother  Richard  died  and  yonder  lies 
Beneath  the  sod  where  I  shall  join  him  soon. 
My  high  ambition  for  this  beauteous  Shore 
Has  been  to  see  it  fill  with  goodly  stock, 
Communities  to  beautify  the  land ; 
And  Churches  of  the  Living  God  to  shine 
Like  galaxies  from  Bay  to  Bay.     My  work 
Will  soon  be  done  and  Stevens  soon  must  go ! 

Four  little  Eastern  Shoremen 

Will  linger  and  remain, 
My  John,  my  namesake  William, 

My  James  and  little  Anne. 
God  bless  the  coming  thousands 

The  children  yet  to  be — 
The  hope  of  fhis  grand  country, 

Her  proud  nobility ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  105 

No,  not  long !     My  life  has  been  a  busy  life, 

But  now  the  taper  flickers.     Far  down  the  years 

I  see  a  lonely  tomb.     The  many  other  graves, 

My  kith  and  kin,  demolished  and  unknown. 

I  see  one  heavy  slab  still  in  its  place; 

And  now  and  then  a  pilgrim  comes  and  stands 

And  spells  it  out — the  name  of  William  Stevens. 

Two  hundred  years — contemporaries  gone — 

And  graveyards  crumbled.     Well,  no  matter  then, 

If  noble  bosoms  still  survive  and  nobe  deeds ! 

Where  we  have  pitched  the  standards 

And  planted  deep  and  well, 
May  offspring  keep  the  temple 

And  guard  the  citadel ; 
May  the  spirit  of  the  fathers, 

The  staunch  old  pioneers, 
Descend  to  children's  children 

And  gird   succeeding  years ! 

Another  vision  rises.     No  second-sight 
Like  canny  Scotch,  but  standing  near  the  marge, 
The  haze  appears  to  lift.     What  throngs  are  those 
I  see  far  on  ahead  on  Holden's  Creek — 
Outnumbering  all  our  population  now ! 
Out  of  the  mist  of  years  a  granite  shaft, 
Sublime,  benign,  stands  forth  and  plaudits  ring! 
A  Continental  Church  awakes,  remembers, 
Proclaims  her  Founder !     The  years  have  won ! 
I  read  Makemie,  large  upon  the  Cairn ! 

Where  Francis  planned  his  mission, 

Where  Francis  won  his  bride, 
Where   Papa  kissed  his  daughters 

And  lived  and  loved  and  died ; 
Where  God  had  owned  His  Prophet 

And  placed  His  Sentinel, 
The  people  light  the  Temple, 

And  guard  the  Citadel! 


io6  Makemieland    Memorials 


OLD    GEORGE. 

The  old-time  darky's  fading  out. 

The  good  old  servant's  had  his  day, 
The  friendliness  and  trustfulness 

Of  white  and  black  have  passed  away ; 
The  old-time  slavery  had  its  faults, 

Its  darker  shadows  now  and  then. 
But  Slavery  had  its  own  rare  gems 

The  world  can  never  see  again ! 

My  old  Black  Mammy,  broad  and  fat, 

And  fond  and  true,  Mahala  Short — 
There  never  was  a  homelier  face, 

There  never  was  a  warmer  heart ; 
And  yonder  on  my  native  banks, 

Beside  old  Trappe  Creek's  pensive  marge 
I  stand  to-day  by  his  low  grave 

And  drop  a  tear  for  good  Old  George ! 

Old  George — Ah  !  yes  I  see  him  still : 

His  sturdy  tread  across  the  fields, 
The  flashing  scythe  is  in  his  hand. 

The  flail  his  virile  muscle  wields ; 
His  loyalty  to  old  Mars  Bob, 

Throughout  the  day  from  morning  dawn, 
His  Master's  interests  all  his  aim, 

You  would  have  thought  the  Farm  his  own. 

I  see  him  of  his  own  accord 

Beside  the  hominy  mortar  stand. 
Till  late  at  night  unwearied  still 

Pounding  the  grnin  with  tireless  hand: 
And  thus  we  heard  the  pestle  throb — 

Those  iron  sinews  hard  and  large. 
Because  we  children  loved  the  dish — 

The  ever-faithful  good  Old  George! 


Makemieland    Memorials  107 

As  honest  as  the  day  was  long, 

There  was  no  need  of  harsh  control; 
There  never  was  a  sturdier  stroke. 

There  never  was  a  whiter  soul ; 
And  he  and  old  Mars  Bob  were  friends 

And  slavery  had  its  gentle  reign. 
Its  friendliness  of  race  for  'race 

The  world  can  never  see  again ! 

Us  boys — he  used  to  love  us  well, 

A  brother  in  that  old  black  skin. 
And  when  he  went  we  missed  him  sore 

As  if  he  had  been  close  of  kin; 
Now  three  old  men,  white-haired  and  worn. 

Are  thinking  of  him  near  the  verge. 
And  hail  him  still  across  the  tide — 

Our  old  companion,  dear  Old  George ! 


VOICE  OF  THE  PINES. 


To  Miss  S.  P.  B.,  of  Drummondtown. 

I  heard  an  Old  Pine — but  let  me  premise 
That  the  man's  scarcely  human,  he's  surely  not  wise. 
Who  says,  when  returned  from  a  fresh  woodland  walk, 
That  a  Pine  cannot  feel,  that  a  Pine  cannot  talk. 

I  heard  an  Old  Pine — but  let  me  again 
Declare  that  nowhere  in  tire  annals  of  men 
Was  there  ever  a  Bard  or  a  Poet  so  fine, 
Or  a  Singer  so  sweet  as  a  grand  Old  Pine  ! 

So  I  heard  an  Old  Pine,  a  noble  old  Tree, 
With  a  pure  pedigree  and  an  F.  F.  V., 
In  one  of  his  genial  contemplation  moods, 
Thus  telling  his  dreams  to  the  listening  woods: — 


108  Makemieland    Memorials 

"There  are  people  with  souls  and  people  without," 
And  he  shook  his  green  locks  with  a  smile  and  a  doubt, 

"There  are  people  with  hearts  and  a  skyward  brow, 
And  others  as  stupid  as  an  old  dead  bough ! 

"There  are  those  that  can  hear  in  the  Pine  Tree's  moan 
The  requiem  chants  of  the  loved  who  are  gone 
The  legends  and  tales  of  the  seasons  far  back, 
The  glories  ancestral  of  fair  Accomack  \ 

"They  shrink  from  the  Vandals  who  murder  the  Pines, 
Who  doom  to  oblivion  the  Evergreen  Shrines, 
The  Temples  of  Nature  your  Fathers  have  trod, 
The  haunts  of  the  Fairies  and  the  footsteps  of  God ! 

"I  know  a  true  heart  that  inhabits  these  scenes, 
A  Daughter  and  Queen  of  the  proud  Evergreens, 
Who  fancies  the  Poems  the  Pine  Trees  bring. 
Who  fondles  the  Songs  which  the  Pine  Woods  sing ! 

"The  Beauty  that  blossoms,  adorning  her  way, 
She  would  cherish  and  guard  to  the  far  after  day, 
And  hand  then  still  onward  to  seasons  to  be, 
The  smile  and  the  voice  of  the  Old  Pine  Tree ! 

"And  ever  and  ever  The  Park  shall  remain 
The  child  of  her  heart  and  the  pet  of  her  brain, 
And  all  the  bright  years  shall  the  lustre  renew — 
The  fair  name  of  Bayly  an  Evergreen  too !" 


Makemieland    Memorials  109 


HICKORY   NUTTIN'   DAYS. 

Hickory  nuttin' — I'll  tell  you  somethin' 

Of  those  rare  old  Autumn  days; 
Sumac  red  and  blushes  redder, 
Bound  to  win  my  Nell  and  wed  her 
'Neath  the  Indian  Summer  haze. 
Hickory  nuttin',  hickory  nuttin'. 

Listen  and  I'll  tell  you  somethin', 
Of  the  witchery  of  the  hickory — 
Of  the  hickory  nuttin'  days. 

Nell  grew  sweeter — none  could  beat  her 

In  those  rare  old  Autumn  days ; 
Golden  rod  in  golden  lustres, 
Wild  grapes  in  their  spicy  clusters, 
'Neath  the  Indian  Summer  haze ! 
Hickory  nuttin',  hickory  nuttin'. 

Listen  and  I'll  tell  you  somethin', 
Of  the  witchery  of  the  hickory — 
Of  the  hickory  nuttin'  days. 

Nell  was  airy  as  a  fairy 

In  those  rare  old  Autumn  days; 
Cheeks  as  red  as  holly-berry, 
Lips  as  luscious  as  a  cherry 

'Neath  the  Indian  Summer  haze. 
Hickory  nuttin',  hickory  nuttin', 

Listen  and  I'll  tell  you  somethin', 
Of  the  witchery  of  the  hickory — 
Of  the  hickory  nuttin'  days. 

Hickory  nuttin' — not  for  nothin', 

In  those  rare  old  Autumn  days  ; 
Golden  rod  become  more  golden. 
Angel  in  my  arms  enfoldin', 

'Neath  the  Indian  Summer  haze. 
Hickory  nuttin',  hickory  nuttin', 

Listening  while  I  told  her  somethin' — ■ 
Of  the  witchery  of  the  hickory — 
Of  the  hickory  nuttin'  days ! 


no  Makemieland    Memorials 

OLD    CAROLINE. 

It  were  a  pity  and  a  loss 

To  you  and  life  and  me 
And  many  a  scene  to  memory  dear 

And  to  sweet  poesy. 
If,  while  the  world  still  has  its  flings 

At  Slavery  and  its  sins, 
We  should  forget  the  humble  dead, 

The  jewels  in  black  skins. 

The  faithful  serfs  as  true  as  steel 

The  slaves  of  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
The  faithful  hearts  like  hers  I  sing 

Our  fine  Old  Caroline ; 
No  elegance  in  face  or  form, 

No  lofty  air  or  look, 
But   with   those   kitchen   logs   aglow. 

My  goodness,  she  could  cook  ! 

She  came  to  us  a  timid  thing. 

And  shrinking  and  alone, 
But  old  Miss  Andy  won  her  heart 

Before  the  day  was  done: 
Old  Miss— the  little  Negro  felt 

The  winsome  look  she  wore — 
The  tenderest  heart  that  ever  beat 

Upon  the  Eastern  Shore ! 

The  wondrous  skill  of  kind  old  Miss 

The  watchful  maid  acquires — 
Beside  the  wide  old  chimney-place 

And  big  old-fashioned  fires; 
Your  stoves  and  granges  can't  compete. 

Nor  all  your  boasted  books, 
With  those  great  fires  of  long  ago 

And  those  old  Negro  cooks ! 

I  smell  the  frying  chickens  yet, 
The  pullets  of  Lang  Syne, 

All  browning  there  beneath  the  smiles 
Of  brown  Old  Caroline ; 


• 


Makemieland    Memorials  hi 

And  then  the  herrings  in  the  pan, 

And  croakers  from  the  hook, 
All  crisp  and  rich  and  golden-hued — 

I  tell  you  she  could  cook  ! 

Oh  Yellow  Pone,  rare  Yellow  Pone, 

So  luscious,  sweet  and  light, 
Enveloped  deftly  in  oak  leaves 

And  mellowing  all  night ; 
No  cooking-school  or  foreign  chef 

Has  ever  undertook 
To  rival  old  Virginia  Pone 

When  Caroline  was  cook ! 

What  is  this  odor,  as  refined 

As  famed  Attar  of  Rose, 
These  sweets  of  Araby  the  Blest 

That  steel  upon  my  nose  ! 
Ah  'tis  the  possum  for  us  boys, 

Those  happy  days  in  luck, 
For  in  those  fair  old  Eden  days 

I  tell  you  she  could  cook  ! 

We  had  our  sweethearts — Oh  of  course — 

And  Bob  and  Bill  combine 
To  hunt  them  brides  to  bake  and  fry 

Like  good  Old  Caroline ; 
And  Billy  found  her,  but  poor  Bob 

No  equal  ever  struck. 
And  does  not  wed  because  none  match 

Old  Caroline  as  cook  ! 

And  nursed  on  Calvinistic  milk 

And   Presbyterian  grub. 
Old  Lit  forevermore  in  love — 

Too  often — there's  the  rub  : 
But  finally  he  settled  down. 

No  more  a  tramp  or  crook. 
And  found  a  model,  heavenly  brand. 

A  most  angelic  cook! 


H2  Makemieland    Memorials 

Ah  me,  Old  Caroline  is  gone 

And  vistas  of  delights, 
And  youngsters  ardor  for  knick-knacks 

And  boyhood's  appetites  ; 
And  chivalry  and  poesy, 

By  many  a  brae  and  brook, 
For  in  those  far  old  Slavery  days 

I  tell  you  they  could  cook ! 


SONG  OF  THE  REHOBOTH  VOLUNTEERS. 


Air — Auld  Lang  Syne. 


This  Young  People's  Society  is  the  first  in  the  Church's  His- 
tory of  227  years. 

r 
We  join  our  hands  and  link  our  hearts 

And  all  that  life  endears, 
For   God   and   Church   and   Native   Land — 
Rehoboth  Volunteers ; 

Rehoboth    Volunteers — all    right ; 

We  hail  the  Pioneers ; 
A  noble  aim,  a  worthy  name — 
Rehoboth   Volunteers. 

Where  our  Forefathers  sung  their  Psalms 

And  raised  their  fervent  prayers, 
We  too  will  pray  as  in  their  day, 

Rehoboth   Volunteers ; 

Rehoboth  Volunteers — all   right,   etc. 

Where  Stevens  grew  and  Jenkins  too 

In  far  Colonial  years, 
We'll  be  Makemie's  boys  and  girls, 

Rehoboth   Volunteers ; 

Rehoboth   Volunteers — all   right,   etc. 


Makemieland    Memorials  113 

God's  workers  in   the  days  to  come, 

A  grit  that  perseveres, 
A  zealous  band,  a  ready  hand. 

Rehoboth  Volunteers ; 

Rehoboth   Volunteers — all   right,  etc. 

For  Christ  and  Church  we  give  our  hearts, 

A  love  that  lifts  and  cheers. 
Successors  to  the  honored  dead — 

Rehoboth   Volunteers  ; 

Rehoboth   Volunteers — all   right,   etc. 


ANNE   OF   BEVERLY. 

Among  the  genial  memories 

Now  melting  into  dreams. 
That  glimmer  in  pine  forest 

And  by  the  pensive  streams. 
Where  pictures  of  our  loved  ones 

Emerge  by  ancient  graves. 
There  too,  the  sable  faces, 

The  old  true-hearted  slaves. 

The  gleams  of  days  departed 

Still  float  upon  the  air: 
The  legends  of  fair  Beverly 

Still  linger  here  and  there ; 
The  Lady  Mistress  'mid  her  flowers 

We  seem  to  see  again. 
And  by  her  side  unfalteringly 

The  form  of  good  old  Anne. 

Yes.  slavery  days  have  vanished. 

But  in  their  faded  track 
Was  many  a  thing  of  beauty 

That  never  can  come  back ; 
The  faithful  old  Black  Mammy. 

The  loyal  heart  and  hand. 
Soul-links   which  colder   regions 

Can  never  understand. 


ii4  Makemieland    Memorials 

There  in  the  ancient  Mansion 

The  child  of  Ham  was  born. 
And  played  among  the  blossoms 

And  'mid  the  silking  corn ; 
So  grew  the  colored  maiden 

Along  the  riverside, 
And  Mistress  was  her  sunshine, 

Her  angel  and  her  pride. 

And  there  were  Feudal  pleasures, 

And  many  a  Feudal  tie, 
To  soften  that  close  guardianship — 

The  world  called  slavery; 
And  Anne  loved  dear  Ole  Mississ 

Far  more  than  colored  kin, 
For  there  was  hidden  poesy 

'Neath  many  an  old  black  skin. 

No  rending  of  the  war  times, 

No  armies  in  array. 
No  loud  emancipation 

Could  lure  her  heart  away ; 
The  years  were  verging  onward, 

The  seasons  went  and  came ; 
In  youth,  old  age,  and  ever, 

Old  Anne  was  just  the  same. 

And  Jonathan   and  David 

No  richer  ties  displayed — 
The  beautiful  white  woman 

The  homely  colored  maid ; 
No  social,  sham  equality, 

No  harsh  and  frigid  thrall, 
Twin  lives  as  God  had  made  them— 

And  it  was  beautiful ! 

Thus  growing  old  together, 
Till  death  at  length  was  there; 

The  lone  serf  broken-hearted 
And  weeping  by  the  bier ; 


Makemieland    Memorials  115 

And  there  was  desolation, 

And  there  was  woe  within — 
For  there  was  holy  chivalry 

'Neath  many  an  old  black  skin. 

The  frost-king  touched  Anne's  teardrops 

To  crystals  pure  and  round ; 
They  bore  them  with  the  casket 

To  consecrated  ground ; 
And  never  Queen  or  Princess 

Was  decked  in  rarer  gems, 
For  slavery  with  its  foibles 

Had  its  own  diadems ! 

I'd  like  to  wear  such  jewels 

When  pilgrim  days  are  done, 
The  love  of  meek  and  lowly 

Up  to  the  great  White  Throne ; 
Our  wanderings  here  all  over, 

The  journey  safely  through, 
And  every   serf  enfranchised, 

And  we  enfranchised,  too  ! 

God  bless  the  old-time  darkies, 

Built  on  the  old-time  mould, 
The  sturdy,  humble  bosoms 

The  hearts  as  true  as  gold ; 
They  loved  the  hand  that  guided, 

The  patriarchal  tie, 
And  never  was  there  faithfuller 

Than  Anne  of  Beverlv ! 


n6  Makemieland    Memorials 


CLERICAL    ACROBATS. 


Written  by  the  Muse  Bedridden  and  Sore. 

Ho,  all  ye  frisky,  spry  Night  Riders 

In  old  Kentuck  and  Tennessee, 
Or   by    the    Pokymoky    River 

In  this  preposterous  century. 
Cavorting  round  in  darkness  deep 
When  decent  people  are  asleep  ! 

Not  a  hint  or  moment's  warning. 

Not  a  second  to  consult, 
A   shock,  a  crash,   and   Parson  flying 

Like  missile  from  a  catapult! 
And  sure  no  mortal  man  could  get 
More  scientific  summerset ! 

Oh  William  Stevens — Stevens  William — 
Here  crossing  at  your  Stevens  Ferry, 

Did  you  or  Scotchmen  from  the  heather. 
Or  Irish  lads  from  Londonderry, 

E'er  perpetrate  such  antics  here, 

Or  flounder  in  such  mud  and  mire? 

I   wonder  if  our  brave  Makemie, 

His  Pony  Button  in  full  dash. 
E'er  ventured  out  in  such  dank  darkness 

And  come  to  earth  with  such  a  crash  ! 
While  all  these  regions  heard  the  noise 
Of  Theologic  avoirdupois! 

'Twas  hardly  sure  to  be  expected 
That   Parson  from  so  good  a  Town, 

Should   start  up   such  a   Sunday  Circus 
And  undertake  to  play  the  clown  ; 

Though  there  are  Ministers  we've  met 

Who've  flung  completer   summerset ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  r  1 7 

For  now  and  then  we've  seen  some  Preachers, 

Enraptured  with  Sam  Jones'  pranks, 
Forget,  forsake  the  hallowed  Gospel 

And  turn  themselves  to  mountebanks ; 
Repentance  changed  to  gay  ha-has, 
To  joke  the  sinner  to  the  Cross! 

We  see  them  play  the  Politician, 

And  think  it  smart  and  orthodox 
To  leave  our  Jesus  in  the  shadows 

And  try  to  run  the  ballot  box ; 
The  Pulpiteers  and  Theologues 
Parading   round  as  •  Demagogues  ! 

We  see  the  frisky  Higher  Critics, 

Too  sharp  by  far  for  Paul  or  Moses, 
Turn  vpside  down  our  precious  Bible 

By  some  occult  metemsychosis ; 
Thus  by  Satanic  currents  met, 
Dull  pulpits  fling  a  summerset ! 

Ho,  all  ye  frisky,  gay  Night  Riders, 

You'd  better  watch  the  gathering  gloom, 

Avoid  impending,  dire  collisions 
And  keep  your  equilibrium  : 

Too  reckless  driving,  wild  and  rash, 

May  bring  the  everlasting  smash ! 

Meanwhile  this  battered-up  Old  Stager 

Must  intersperse  the  pains  with  fun. 
And  oil  the  thinking  apparatus. 

And  keep  blue-devils  on  the  run  ; 
For   One    forever   True   hath    spoken — 
My  servant's  bones  shall  not  be  broken  ! 

It  well  is  worth  some  little  suffering 

To  find  it  out  how  well  we're  loved  ; 
The  kindly  hearts,  the  genial  bosoms, 

To  sympathetic  ardor  moved ; 
The  messes  sent,  the  truthful  eyes. 
The  fragrant  flowers  of  Paradise  ! 


n8  Makemieland    Memorials 

WE    CHILDREN. 

We  children  of  Rehoboth 
Are  met  for  song  and  praise. 

As  once  the  children  met  and  sung 
In  the  old  Makemie  days  ; 

For  here  the  early  girls  and  boys 

First  learned  to  love  Makemie's  voice. 

We  children  of  Rehoboth, 

With   our  ballads  and  our   rhymes. 

Will  serve  the  God  they  used  to  serve 
In  the  old  Makemie  times ; 

As  happy  as  they  used  to  be 

When  he  came  sailing  o'er  the  sea. 

The  children  of  Rehoboth, 
The   Drydens  and  the   Brays, 

The  Jenkinses  and  Stevenses 
Here  met  to  pray  and  praise — 

The  Colbourns  and  the  Whites  and  Browns 

The  Beauchamps  and  the  Whittingtons ! 

The  children  of  Rehoboth 

In  that  far  Colonial  date 
Came  bright  and  glad  from  everywhere 

And  never  were  too  late ; 
Cold  or  hot  or  rainy  clime, 
Always   here   in   nick   of  time. 

The  children  of  Rehoboth 
Were   well-behaved  and  nice ; 

When   good   Makemie   rose   to   preach, 
They  were  as  still  as  mice ; 

For  when  they  heard  our  Founder  speak, 

The  babies  never  made  a  squeak. 

We  children  of  Rehoboth 

Will  mind  Makemie  too. 
And  do  with  all  our  hearts  and  hands 

As  he  would  have  us  do ; 
And  in  our  lives  and  in  our  ways 
Be  worthy  of  those  good  old  days. 


Makemieland    Memorials  i  19 


THE    COOL    SPRING. 

It  was  in  the  Long  ago, 
Azure  sky  in  brightest  glow, 
Earth  and  all  things  here  below 

Benisons   bestowing; 
Where  the  water-lilies  grow 
Where  the  whispering  zephyrs  blow, 
Where  the  Cool  Spring,  prattling  low, 

Limpidly  was  flowing ; 
Wholesome  old  chalybeate  Spring, 
Welcoming  and  gladdening 
Never  in  our  wandering — 

Prairie,   moor  or  mountain — 
Could  the  world  its  equal  bring, 
Traveler  tell  or  poet  sing 
Drafts  so  rich  and  heartening, 

As  that  sparkling  fountain ! 

Clustered  there  were  not  a  few 
Hallowed  friendships  staunch  and  true, 
Never  waning,  ever  new, 
Hearts  as  fresh  as  morning  dew 

On  the  vernal  flowers ; 
Parents  there  and  sisters  too, 
Life  arrayed  in  roseate  hue, 
Ere  they  faded  from  our  view 

In  the  fated  hours ; 
Blest  and  fair,  blest  and  fair, 
In  midsummer's   dreamy  air. 
Young    and    old    are    mingling    there, 

Gay  and  happy-hearted ; 
Who — how    few — are    left    that   bear 
Still  in  mind  names  graven  there 
Upon  that  oak  !    So  everywhere 
Names  and   faces  disappear, 
Blest  and  fair  and  good  and  rare, 

In  the  days  departed ! 


120.  Makemieland    Memorials 

Thus  of  all  that  joyous  throng, 
Glad  as  songster  ever  sung, 
Men  and  maids  and  old  and  young, 
Happy  spirits,  busy  tongue, 

Jolly  old  Trappe  Creekers ; 
None  emerges  from  the  fog. 
As  fond  memory  I  jog. 
Save  one  family  and  a  frog 
Leaping  blithely  from  the  bog 

'Mid  the  gay  picknickers  ! 
Whitest  cloths  on  grassy  ground, 
Smiling  guests   arranged  around, 
Appetites  with  ardor  crowned. 

Palates   all   a-booming ; 
Chicken  pie  and  apple  pie. 
Beaten  biscuit  mountain-high, 
Mellow  country  ham — Oh  my — 
Indian  pone's  felicity, 
Old  metheglin's  ecstacy, 
All  that  art  could  bake  or  fry — 

Paradise  in  blooming ; 
Coffee  fumes  luxuriously 
Floating  upward  to  the  sky, 

All  the  grove  perfuming. 
All  are  happy  now  as  lords, 
Smacking  lips  and  cheery  words. 
Joyous  as  the  singing  birds, 

Eden  edifying; 
Then  Sir  Froggie  ambles  up, 
Leaps  elate  into  the  group, 
Plate  to  plate  he  loups  the  loup, 
Makes  poor  Lit  his  special  dupe. 
Landing  in  his  coffee  cup. 

And  sends  hot  spray  a-flying ! 

'Tis  no  laughing  matter,  Sir; 
Earthquakes  make  no  wilder  stir ; 
Screams  ring  out  upon  the  air; 
Ladies  scattering  far  and  near. 
Hoops  and  bustles  out  of  gear — 
Batrachkn  in  clover ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  121 

Then  and  there  his  victim  swore — 
Swore  to  drink  frog-tea  no  more. 
And  from  that  decisive  hour 

He  quit  the  drug  forever  ! 
And  those  lassies  in  dismay 
Lest  some  omen  in  it  lay, 
Feared  Batrachian  meant  to  say 
'Twas  their  destinies  to  stay 
In  the  frog-pond  dismally 

Till  their  lives  were  over, 
No  wedding  feast,  no  nuptial  day. 

No  hubby  dear — no.  never  ! 

Cooling  Spring,  our  pride  of  yore, 
Yellow  with  the  tonic  ore ; 
Saratoga  never  bore 
Drafts  so  healthy  and  so  pure, 

'Mid  such  lilies  flashing ; 
Oh,  the  good  old  Eastern  Shore. 
Sixty  years  ago  or  more, 
Joys  afloat  like  streams  that  pour 

From  thy  depths  refreshing. 
Here  I  grope  and  I  would  fain 
Quaff  thy  crystal  flood  again 
But  I  search  and  search  in  vain. 

Dammed  and  desecrated ; 
All  thy  pristime  beauty  slain, 
By  the  wreck  I  stand  in  pain, 

Romance  assassinated ! 

Still  I  dream.    The  warblers  sing 
While  my  hands  the  pitchers  bring 
For  my  Mother's  gladdening 
Ere  the  days  of  saddening, 

In  the  days  departed ; 
Yea,  among  those  charms  of  thine, 
Here  I  found  the  Saviour  mine ; 
And  within  this  sylvan  Shrine, 
Tree  of  Life  and  Streams  Divine. 

Heavenward  I  started ; 


Makemieland    Memorials 

Breezes  blew  from  Heavenly  hills, 
Canaan's  vales  and  Kidron's  rills, 

Giliad's  zephyrs  balmy; 
There  Celestial   dew   distills 
Ointments  sweet  for  all  earth's  ills, 

My  Jehovah  Shammah ! 

Thus  I  leave  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Filled  with  many  a  memory; 

Not  a  sound  on  earth  and  sky, 

Save  the  pinkypanky's  cry,  t 

That  old  frog's  posterity 
In  the  stagnant  waters. 
"Coffee,  coffee,"  bursts  on  high, 

Bullfrogs  and  the  smaller  fry; 
"Coffee  guzzlers,"  far  and  nigh 

Croak   Sir   Froggie's  progeny, 

Tantalizing  symphony, 

Phrogosophic  psalmody, 

Poking  fun  at  days  gone  by, 
And  those  flustered  daughters ! 

The  landmarks  of  the  lustrous  past, 

Into  oblivion  fading  fast, 

Oh  save  them  from  the  blight  and  blast 

And   negligence  inhuman ! 
Memorials  of  your  Eastern  Shore, 
Footprints  of  worthies  gone  before, 
The  name  and  fame  your  fathers  bore, 
Hear,   hear   the   sacred   past   implore — ■ 
The  beauty  and  the  form  restore, 
And  vindicate  the  days  of  yore, 

Each  thoughtful  man  and  woman ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  123 


BLACK   MAMMY'S  LULLABY. 

I  nussed  my  baby's  mother, 

Ole  Massie's  joy  and  pride ; 
I    saw   my   baby's   mother 

De  sweet  and  blushin'  bride ; 
I  helped  to  nuss  dat  mother 

When  little  Mas  was  born — 
De  dew  was  on  de  clover, 
De  tassle  on  de  corn. 

By  baby  by,  sweet  baby  by, 

And  happy  ole  Black  Mammy — 
De  dew  was  on  the  clover, 
De  tassle  on  de  corn. 

I   saw   my   baby's   mother, 

De  eyes  of  Heavenly  brown  ; 
I   saw  de  paleness  comin', 

De  sickness  pull  her  down. 
De  baby  on  her  bosom, 

Black  Mammy  by  her  side; 
'Take  care  of  baby,   Mammy," 
And  so  she  said  and  died. 
By  baby  by,  sweet  baby  by, 

And  weepin'  ole  Black  Mammy — 
"Take  care  of  baby,  Mammy," 
And  so  she  said  and  died. 

Dey  laid  her  'mong  de  roses, 

De  ole  plantation   grave, 
Wid  laurel  blossoms  bloomin'. 

Out  where  de  pine  tree  wave ; 
To  me  dat  boy  was  nestlin' 

Like   birdie    in   de   nest, 
And  clingin'  close  and  closer 
To  dis  ole  colored  breast. 
By  baby  by,  sweet  baby  by, 

And  troubled  ole  Black  Mammy — 
And  clingin  close  and  closer 
To   dis  ole  colored  breast! 


124  Makemieland    Memorials 

Dese  shoulders  now  are  bendin', 

Dese  eyes  are  growin'  dim : 
He'd  die  for  ole  Black  Mammy, 
Black  Mammy' d  die  for  him  ! 
To-day  he  weds  Miss  Jessie, 
To-day  he  brings  her  home, 
And  both   shall   be   my   childrens 
Until   anudder   come. 

By  baby  by,  sweet  baby  by. 

And  glory  halleluyer — 
And  both  shall  be  my  childrens 
Until  another  come  ! 


DEAD    IN    DIXIE. 


Beautifully  read  by  a  lady  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Confe* 
rate  Monument  at  Parksley,  Accomack  Co.,  Virginia 

Hail,  ye  dead,  in  glory  resting, 

Fallen  on  the  fields  of  strife, 
Love  to  native  land  attesting 

With  your  heart's-blood  and  your  life; 
You  our  theme  and  boast  to-day, 
Sons  of  our  Peninsula  ! 

Years  have  passed  since  you  departed, 

We  your  comrades  growing  old, 
But  by  true  and  faithful   hearted 

Still  your  praises  shall  be  told  ; 
Friends   of  Jackson   and   of   Lee, 
Hail,  ye  martyr'd  Thirty  Three  ! 

By  your  prowess  in  the  battle. 

Steady  'mid  the  gushing  gore. 
By  the  rifle's  flash  and  rattle. 

By  the  cannon's  belch  and  roar. 


■Makemieland    Memorials  125 

We  salute  you,  rear  and  front, 
In  the  fight's  terrific  brunt ! 

By  the  right  as  you  conceived  it. 

By  the  old  gray  suit  you  wore. 
By  the  truth  as  you  believed  it 

And  our  dear  old  Eastern  Shore, 
Land  of  your  nativity. 
Grand  heroic  Thirty  Three ! 

By  the  homes  that  you  defended, 

By  your  wounds  and  by  your  scars, 
By  the  heights  of  fame  ascended 

With  the  gallant  stars  and  bars, 
We  accord  you  ardent  praise 
In  the  land  between  the  Bays! 

Hark!  they  hear  Virginia  calling! 

Foes  are  on  her  sacred  soil ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  falling 

'Mid  the  carnage   and  the   spoil ! 
Hark!  the  bugle  and  the  drum — 
Motherland,  we  come,  we  come  ! 

See,  their  skiff  is  on  the  waters. 

Seize  the  rudder,  man  the  oar. 
Leaving  sweethearts,  wives  and  daughters, 

And  the  good  old  Eastern  Shore  ; 
Dixie,    Dixie — duty's   voice — 
This  makes  heroes  of  the  boys! 

To  the  camp  and  to  the  battle. 

Many  to  return  no  more ; 
Eastern  Shoremen  on  their  mettle 

For  their  proud  old  Eastern  Shore ; 
Iron  nerve  and  constancy 
Of  our  dauntless  Thirty  Three ! 

Sing  your  songs  above  their  slumbers, 

Ever  fresh  and  ever  new  ; 
Dixie's  songs  in  plaintive  numbers, 

For  they  used  to  sing  them  too  ; 
Sung  them  in  the  camp  at  night. 
Sung  them  marching  to  the  fight ! 


T26  Makemieland    Memorials 

Years  have  flown  and  still  are  flying 
And  our  ranks  are  growing  thin  ; 

All  are  aging,  some  are  dying, 

None  are  what  we  once  have  been ; 

But  unwavering  still   we  stay 

By  our  comrades  passed  away ! 

Heart  to  heart  to-day  we  gather, 
Loyal  camp  of  U.  C.  V's, 

And  the  souls  that  never  waver 
Of  our  peerless  U.   D.   C's ; 

Faithful  to  our  faithful  dead, 

Those  who  fought  and  those  who  bled ! 

Thank  the  Lord  that  war  inhuman 
Long  into  the  past  has  died; 

Noble  men  and  noble  women 
Were  arrayed  on  either  side ; 

Soldiers  of  the  gray  and  blue 

Meet  and  greet  as  brothers  do ! 

Peace  has  come  in  smiles  of  beauty, 
Nights  unstartled,  tranquil   days ; 

Kindred  hearts  allied  for  duty 
In  the  land  between  the  Bays; 

To  one  purpose  bosoms   plighted, 

North  and  South  in  soul  united ! 

But  no,  never — Ah  no,  never, 
Be  forgot  fair  Dixie's  braves ; 
Still  they're  ours  and  ours  forever, 

Honored  lives  and  treasured  graves ; 
Call  the  roll  and  keep  each  name 
Fragrant  on  the  scrolls  of  fame ! 

With  the  heroes  of  the  ages, 
Battles  lost  and  battles  won, 

Fields  renowned  on  History's  pages, 
Thermapolae  and   Marathon, 

So  the  Muses  yet  shall  tell 

Of  the  conflicts  where  ye  fell ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  127 

Sing  the  songs,  repeat  the  story 

Fresh  and  fragrant  evermore — 
They  the  pride  and  they  the  glory 

Of  our  cherished  Eastern  Shore; 
Hail,  devoted  Thirty  Three, 
Heirs  of  immortality ! 

Sing  your   songs,  ye  loyal  bosoms, 

Dixie's  maids  and  Dixie's  queens; 
Wreathe  your  hearts  among  the  blossoms 

Chapleted  with  evergreens  ; 
Standing  thus  beside  your  dead, 
Lo,  their  graves  are  comforted ! 


THE    HYMNS    THEY    LOVED. 

Give  me  the  old-time  music  that  came  and 
came  to  stay ; 

Our  loved  ones  loved  the  old  songs  before 
they  passed  away; 

They   used   to   sing   with   bounding   hearts 
ere  yet  they  won   the  prize — 
"When   I   can   read  my  title  clear  to  man- 
sions in  the  skies." 

The  well-worn  hymns  of  other  years,  the 

tunes  of  other  days, 
Our  buried  singers  tuned  their  lips  to  these 

sweet    harmonies. 
And  voices  silent  now  in  death  once  sent 

the  strains  on  high— 
"On    Jordan's    stormy    banks    I    stand    and 
cast  a  wishful  eye." 

Our  graveyards  have  their  minstrelsy,  the 

warblers   in   the  trees, 
The  robins,  blue-birds,  mocking  birds  that 

sparkle  in  the  trees, 


128  Makemieland    Memorials 

But  never  sweeter  melodies  than  when  our 
Mothers    said — 
"Hush,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  slumber,  holy 
angels  guard  thy  bed." 

Since  then  the  solemn  hearses  along  these 
roads  have  rolled ; 

The  sainted  ones  are  chanting  now  to  shin- 
ing  harps   of  gold, 

And    through    the    Heavenly    corridors    the 
symphony  is  heard — 
"How    firm    a    foundation    ye    saints   of    the 
Lord." 

We've    stood    beside    the    open    grave    and 

sung  the  old-time  hymns. 
An   unction   in   the   ancient   tunes   no   later 

fancy  dims ; 
Rich  cadences   immortal,   no.   nevermore  to 

die — 
"Jesus,    lover    of    my    soul,    let    me    to    thy 

bosom   fly." 

The  old-time  solos  linger  yet,  still  lighting 

up  the   dark, 
As    Noah's    dove    with    olive    branch    still 

lingered  near  the  Ark ; 
Ah  hear  ye  not  the  flight  of  wings  around 

each  burial  place — 
'sYe    angels    who    stand    round    the    Throne 

and  view  our  Immanuel's  face. 

"I  want  to  be  an  angel  and  with  the  angels 
stand  ;'•' 
So  sang  those  little  children  now   with  the 
angelic  band; 
"Shall    we   gather   at   the    River?"     Oh   yes, 
it  was  no  dream. 
They   rest   beneath    the   tree   of   life   beside 
the  Crystal   Stream. 


Makemieland    Memorials  129 

The  old  folks  liked  the  tested  airs  of  loving 

adoration  ; 
Old  Hundred,  Greenville,  Golden  Hill  and 

good  old  Coronation  ; 
Up  there  behold  the  purified  as  at  His  feet 

they  fall, 
"Bring    forth   the   royal   diadem   and   crown 

Him  Lord  of  all." 

"Shall  we  meet  each  other  there?"  Ye  pil- 
grims on  the  road, 
Ere    long    I'm    sure    we'll    meet    and   greet 

beside  the  Throne  of  God, 
All    singing   there   together  as   before   His 
feet   we   bow — 
"Majestic  sweetnees  sits  enthroned  upon  the 
Savior's  brow." 

The  hour  is  surely  coming,  glorious  Resur- 
rection days, 

When  all  our  sad  funeral  songs  shall  glad- 
den into  praise ; 

And    we    shall    sing   in   unison    within   that 
blest  abode — 
"Jesus  sought  me  when  a  stranger  wander- 
ing from  the  fold  of  God." 

We  love  to  bring  old-fashioned  flowers  and 

lay  them  on  the  tombs ; 
We  love  to  bring  old-fashioned  hymns   to 

mingle   their   perfumes ; 
Ye  sainted  choirs,  with  you  we'll  join  and 

touch  the  golden  string — 
"Joy   to   the   world,   the   Lord   is   come ;   let 

earth  receive  her  King." 

Loud  hosannas.  sweet  reunions,  hands  for- 
ever  clasped   in   love ; 
"Hark  ten  thousand  harps  and  voices  sound 
the  note  of  praise  above ;" 


130  Makemieland    Memorials 

Dear  old  graveyards  in  rapt  chorus  burst- 
ing  into    chords    sublime — ■ 
"In   the    Cross   of   Christ   I   glory,   towering 
o'er  the  wrecks  of  time." 

The   tearful    songs    of   other    days   become 

triumphant  Psalms ; 
"Asleep  in  Jesus,  blessed  sleep,"  shall  wake 

'mid   waving  palms ; 
"O  where  shall  rest  be  found"  then  becomes  the 

glad  refrain — 
"There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight  where  saints 

immortal   reign." 

Oh  yes,  the  hour  approaches  when  radiance 

far  and  wide 
Shall   gild   these   ancient   graveyards,    with 

splendors  glorified ; 
And  when  in  rapt  Doxologies  that  lift  our 

heart  on  high, 
"Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow" 

shall  echo  to  the  sky." 

All  hail,  great  Coronation  Day,  that  lights 

the  sea  and  land, 
"From  Greenland's  icy  mountains  to  Afric's 

coral  strand;" 
Till    all    the   graveyards    of   the    earth    wnth 

acclamations  ring — 
"O    grave,    where    is    thy    victory,    O    death, 

where  is  thy  sting!" 


PINE    SHATS. 


Have  you  ever,  have  you  ever — 
Ever  seen  the  pine-shats  fall? 

Yet   the   shiny   things   are   resting 
Like  a  carpet  over  all ; 

Wafted  in  their  downward  flight. 

Saw  you  ever  one  alight? 


Makemieland    Memorials  131 

Have  you  ever — no  you  never, 

Never  heard  a  whispered  sound, 
As  the  gentle  waifs  descended 

Noiselessly  upon  the  ground ; 
Dropping   in   the   pineries, 
Silent   as   the   silences. 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  fairies 

Gliding  through  the  voiceless  woods, 
Queen  Titania  and  her  courtiers 

Flitting  through  the  solitudes? 
Yet  they're  there !  by  hill  and  dell ; 
Ask  the  pines  and  they  can  tell ! 

Have  you  ever  heard  the  poems 

Breathing  through  the  stately  trees, 
Lyrics,   madrigals   and   cantos, 

Rhyming  through  their  harmonies  ? 
Yet  they're  there !  in  every  tree 
Sweetest  pine-woods  poesy! 

Have  you  seen  the  long-departed 

Walk'ing  through  the  quiet  shades — 
Names  and  tones  and  smiles  and  memories, 

'Mid  the  mystic  promenades? 
Where  the  fathers  used  to  tread, 
To  the  soul  they  are  not  dead ! 

Have  you  read  the  dim  traditions 

Of  the  dwellers  'mid  the  pines, 
Bosom    stories,    quaint   romances, 

Jewels,  pearls  and  golden  mines? 
If  you  treat  the  pine  trees  well, 
Many  a  legend  they  can  tell ! 

Passing  through  the  dreamy  tree-tops, 

Tinting  all  the  sylvan  scene, 
Know  ye  how  the  pine-woods  Artist 

Paints  and  keeps  them  evergreen? 
Leaves  His  signet  over  all, 
Soundless  as  the  needles  fall? 


132  Makemieland    Memorials 

Can  you  tell  me  of  their  magic 

As  they  fertilizing  lie, 
And  enrich  the  sweet-potatoes, 

And  the  sweet-potato  pie? 
Cultivating  taste  and  then 
Making  thoroughbreds  of  men? 

Who  has  seen  or  heard  the  odors 
Breathing  out  their  healing  balms, 

Soothing  thought  and  weary  body. 
Silent   as    the   evening   calms? 

Balsams  which  when  days  are  sad, 

Make   us   think   of   Giliad? 

Who  has  seen  or  heard  the  heart-beats, 
Worshipping  at  Nature's  Shrines, 

Noiseless   loves,   untold   devotions 

As  we  wandered  through  the  pines — 

While    some    sylph-like    dream    enchants, 

Those  old  pines  our  confidantes? 

'Mid  the  myrtle  and  the  holly, 
'Mid  the  low  arbutus  vines, 

If  you  have  a  darling  secret, 
Go  and  tell  it  to  the  pines ; 

Their  sympathy  perennial   shines — 

I  love  the  man  that  loves  the  pines ! 

Have  you  seen  or  heard  the  Furies, 
Lurking  in  the  dim  alcoves, 

Watching,  waiting  for  the  murderer 
Who  would  mar  the   piney  groves? 

Oh  the  Vandal's   fell   designs ! 

I  hate  the  man  that  hates  the  pines ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  133 


PAWPAW    PARADISE. 

We  went  out  chasin'  pawpaws, 

In  de  soft  October  time, 
And  life  was  in  de  ha-has — 
Ha,  ha,  ha— 
And  gals  were  in  der  primv; 
And   nebber   chasin  pawpaws 
Was  dere  ebber  sich  a  time, 
When  we  were  in  de  ha-has — 
Ha,  ha,  ha — ha,  ha,  ha — 
And  Sallie  in  her  prime ! 

De  fruit  de  frost  had  mellowed 

And  yellowed  in  de  dew, 
And  sho'  dat  fruit  was  luscious — 
Ha,  ha,  ha — 
And  Sal  was  luscious  too ! 
And  nebber  chasin'  pawpaws 

Was  dere  ebber  sich  a  time, 
When  we  were  in  the  ha-has — 
Ha,  ha,  ha — ha,  ha,  ha — 
And   Sal   was  in  her  prime ! 

I    bit   one   of   dem   goodies — 
I  thought  it  was  my  Sal ; 
'Twas   sweet  but   not   more   sweeter- 
Ha,  ha,  ha — 
Than  was  my  little  gal ! 

And  nebber  chasin'  pawpaws 
Was  dere  ebber  sich  a  time, 
When  we  were  in  de  ha-has — 
Ha,  ha,  ha — ha,  ha,  ha — 
And   Sal   was   in   her  prime ! 

One  bite  we  bit  togedder, 

Our  mouths  smacked  side  by  side ; 
I  swore  I'd  be  de  bridegroom — 
Ha,  ha,  ha — 

She  spect  she'd  be  de  bride ! 


134  Makemieland    Memorials 

And  nebber  chasin'  pawpaws 
Was  dere  ebber  sich  a  time, 

When  we  were  in  de  ha-has — 
Ha,  ha,  ha — ha,  ha,  ha— 
And  Sal  was  in  her  prime ! 


CHILDREN    OF    THE   EVERGREENS. 

In  the  Land  of  Evergreens, 

Where  the  laurel,  pine  and  holly, 
With  their  many  varied  tints, 

Have  sure  cures  for  melancholy; 
Where  the  water-lilies  grow, 

Floating   in   the   river-grasses, 
There  among  magnolia  blooms 

Smile  our  happy  lads  and  lassies. 

In  the  Land  of  E\ergreens 

Cheerful   bird-notes   ever  ringing, 
Robins,  wrens  and  orioles, 

Ever  winging,  ever  singing, 
In  the  clime  of  olden  dreams, 

Flowing  streams  and  sparkling  waters, 
There  spring  up  among  the  blooms 

Eastern  Shoreman's  sons  and  daughters. 

And  the  spirit  of  the  past, 

Hoary  legends  and  traditions, 
Float  about  the  piny  woods 

Like  the  gleam  of  apparitions ; 
And  among  them  like  the  mists, 

Graceful  forms  and  genial  faces, 
Smiles  two  hundred  years  of  age, 

Of  the  ancient  lads  and  lassies. 

In  the  old  Colonial  days, 

Underneath   the  azure   heavens, 

Little  prattlers  played  their  pranks 
In  the  home  of  William  Stevens; 


Makemieland    Memorials  135 

John  and  William.  James  and  Anne, 

Youthful  hearts  as  gay  as  ever — 
There  the  four  like  water-birds 

Laughed  beside  the  laughing  river. 

Down  upon  the  Jenkins  farm, 

Where  that  tomb  is  lowly  lying, 
Mother  Mary's  preacher-sons 

Many  a  freak  and  trick  were  plying ; 
Preacher's  kids;  and  Henry  then 

Teaches  them  the  Bible  teaching 
While  they  sit  in  this  old  Church, 

Listening  to  their  Father  preaching. 

On  the  banks  of  Holden's  Creek 

Played  Makemie's  brace  of  daughters, 
Sweet  Elizabeth  and  Anne, 

Where  the  seabirds  wade  the  waters ; 
When  their  Father  conies  from  far, 

Hear  we  not  their  voices  hailing? 
Do  we  see  him  take  his  pets 

In  the  sloop  Tabitha  sailing? 

Oh  the  fragrant  Long  Ago, 

Youthful  hope  and  youthful  vision, 
Friendships  of  a  golden  past, 

Pocomoke's  romance  Elysian  ; 
Still  among  the  Evergreens 

Here  and  there  the  vision  passes. 
Where  the  old  endearments  bloomed 

And  the  laddies  loved  the  lassies. 

By  the  marge  of  living  streams, 

In  the  pensive  woodland  bowers, 
In  these  gardens  of  the  soul, 

God  is  still  among  the  flowers ; 
And  the  land  of  vine  and  pine 

Has  its  fadeless  recollections 
And  unwithering  evergreens 

In  the  realms  of  the  affections. 


i^6  Makemieland    Memorials 

Where  before  the  whispering  breeze 

Cypress  foliage  waves  and  tosses ; 
Where  young  hearts  of  Long  Ago 

Sleep  beneath  the  graveyard  mosses ; 
Where  by  old  Rehoboth's  Courts 

Comes  the  vision  and  repasses, 
Still  the  heart  has  its  own  world 

And  the  laddies  love  the  lassies. 

There  they  woo  and  there  they  wed 

As  in  seasons  gray  and  olden, 
All  the  brooks  and  all  the  streams 

Their  own  Edens  fair  and  golden ; 
'Mid  the  laurels  and  the  pines, 

Cupid  plots  in  shady  porches, 
While  our  minstrel  Lizzie  Smith 

Plays  and  sings  the  Wedding  Marches ! 


ONE    OF   HER    STANDBYS ; 
E.  G.  P. 

In  the  footsteps  of  his  father, 
In  the  mission  love  endears, 

For  the  weal  of  Old  Rehoboth, 
Many,  many  be  his  years ! 

May  the  seasons  bring  news  gladness 
And  each  morn  a  new  reward, 

For  the  honor  of  Rehoboth 
And  the  glory  of  the  Lord ! 

In  the  footprints  of  Makemie, 
Treading  where  Makemie  trod, 

So  he  labored  for  Rehoboth, 
Standing  by  Makemie's  God  ! 

Once  the  Temple  worn  and  weary. 
Sad,  decrepit,  crumbling  down, 

Who  stood  firm  and  saw  her  rescued, 
Who  alone  but  Emerson? 


Makemieland    Memorials  137 

When  to  save  Makemie's  ashes, 

God's  appointed  hour  had  struck, 
Ending  Vandal   desecration, 

Who   stood  boldly  by  McCook? 

When  his  years  on  earth  have  ended, 

So,  beside  old  Pocomoke, 
Grateful  lovers  of  Rehoboth 

Should  erect  a  Shaft  to  Polk! 


TO    THE    ELECT    LADIES; 

Miss  Agness  and  Miss  Elizabeth. 
Old  Rehoboth  sends  her  greetings 

To  her  Sweethearts  in  the  North, 
Kindly  souls  and  holy  promptings, 

Scottish  blood  and  Scottish  worth — 
Stretching  out   their   cordial   hand 
To   our   famed   Makemieland. 

Here  the  venerable  Temple 

Through  brave  centuries  has  stood. 
Faithful   to   the  old  blue  banners. 

Loyal  witness  for  her  God; 
For  the  faith  inherited 
From  great  Scotland's  martyr'd  dead. 

Old  Rehoboth,  old  Rehoboth, 

Sound  and  staunch  and  orthodox, 

Sends  her  love  to  those  two  sisters, 
Daughters  of  the  land  of  Knox ; 

Whose  sweet  thoughtfulness  distills 

Like  heather-blood  from  Scotia's  hills ! 

Borne  on  pensive,  plaintive  breezes, 
Blowing  from  the  Chesapeake, 

Floating  from  that  shrine  of  beauty 
Down  upon  fair  Holden's  Creek, 

Makemie's  voice  I  seem  to  hear, 

Old  Presbyterian  Pioneer: — 


138  Makemieland    Memorials 

"Hail,"  he  says,  "ye  Scottish  lassies, 
Prompt  your  largess  to  bestow, 
Helpers   of  my   Sanctuary 

Planted  in  the  Long  Ago, 
Where  I  planned  and  wrought  till  death, 
Fought  the  fight  and  kept  the  faith ! 

"Here  I  landed,  loved  and  labored, 
Here  I  prayed  and  here  I  spoke, 
Sailing  in  my  sloop  Tabitha 

Up  and  down  the  Pocomoke, 
Seeking  exiles  in  their  need, 
Scattering  wide  the  precious  seed. 

"Old  Rehoboth,  first  born  daughter, 
In  her  courts  'there  still  is  room' 
For  the  true  and  noble-hearted 

Through  the  covenant  years  to  come, 
Mother-Church,  she  breathes  a  prayer 
For  her  offspring  everywhere ! 

"Your  Makemie's  benedictions 
On  my  Scottish  kin  shall  rest, 
Those   who  help  Makemie's  mission, 

Sisters  of  the  generous  breast ; 
Blessings  from  the  Chesapeake, 
Benisons   from   Holden's   Creek !" 


WHEN    ELLEN    WENT    AWAY. 

The  weary  years  are  drooping, 
These  locks  are  thin  and  gray ; 

Old  age  is  tired  and  very  lone, 
Since   Nellie   went  away ; 

Old  and  gray,  old  and  gray, 

I  care  not  long  to  stay ; 

The  Winter  chilled  the  blossoms, 
When  Nellie  went  away! 


Makemieland    Memorials  139 

I  stood  in  yonder  graveyard 

Beside  her  tomb  to-day, 
The  dearest  spot  on  earth  to  me, 

Since  Nellie  went  away; 
Old  and  gray,  old  and  gray, 
I  care  not  long  to  stay ; 
The  blight  was  on  the  meadows 

When  Nellie  went  away ! 

We  traveled  long  together, 

The   sunshine  on   our   way; 
The  sparkle  now  of  life  has  gone, 

Since.  Nellie  went  away ; 
Old  and  gray,  old  and  gray, 
I  care  not  long  to  stay, 
The  sunshine  lost  its  sunshine  then 

When  Nellie  went  away. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  birdsongs 

And  singing  all  the  day, 
Earth's  sweetest  songs  are  heard  no  more 

Since  Nellie  went  away ; 
Old  and  gray,  old  and  gray, 
I  have  not  long  to  stay, 
And  music  lay  a-dying  then 

When  Nellie  went  away ! 


THE    QUEEN    OF    ACCHAWMACHE. 

The  King  is  gone ;   I'm  left  alone 

Of  all  his  sons  and  daughters ; 
Both  he  and  they  have  sailed  away 

Upon  the  phantom  waters; 
Ah  hear  ye  not  the  death-chant's  strains, 

While  cold  the  death  damp  gathers? 
'Twas  royal  blood  froze  in  those  veins, 

For  Kings  have  been  my  Fathers ! 


140  Makemieland    Memorials 

And  Wackawamp  well  loved  the  Bays, 

The  seasons  bland  and  fertile, 
The  Summer  days  and  silking  maize, 

The  land  of  pine  and  myrtle, — 
The  Chieftain's  bosom  yearned  and  burned 

For  fadeless  tribes  to  follow, 
Heirs  of  this  goodly  heritage 

Of  laurel-bloom  and  holly. 

I  stand  alone;  my  Father's  gone; 

A  woman  faint  and  weary, 
I'm  doomed  to  own  a  tottering  throne, 

Bereft  and   solitary ; 
About  our  home  they  come,  they  come, 

And  crowd  into  our  places, 
These  refugees  from  o'er  the  seas, 

The  beautiful  pale  faces. 

They  call  me  Queen ;  I  stand  between 

The  impact  of  the  races, 
The  wigwam  in  its  feebleness, 

The  might  of  these  white  faces, — 
My  Father's  mind  was  good  and  kind 

To  these  incoming  strangers ; 
I  take  the  throne,  forlorn  and  lone, 

To   face  the  thickening  dangers. 

And  Kiktopeake  by  ford  and  creek, 

And  friendly  Debedeavon, 
The  Laughing  King  of  Accomack,* 

Gave  welcome,  home  and  haven; 
Now  numbers  press  our  helplessness, 

White  navies  vex  the  water, 
And  Wackawamp  now  fain  bequeaths 

Their  friendships  to  his  daughter. 

*  The  "Laughing  King  of  Accomack"  is  mentioned  by  Cap- 
tain John  Smith  in  his  first  visit  to  the  Eastern  Shore.  The 
Will  of  the  Queen's  Father  is  still  found  on  the  ancient  Court 
Records  at  Eastville. 


Makemieland    Memorials  14.1 

I  do  not  know;  the  hoarse  winds  blow 

Like  muffled  hordes  invading, 
And  in  the  mists  do  not  I  see 

The   Redmen    dimly   fading? 
They  crowd  us,  crowd  us  everywhere, 

By   forest,  field  and   river, 
Till  Laughing  Kings  of  Accomack 

Shall  smile  no  more  forever ! 

0  beauteous  land,  blue  sky  and  strand 
And  nurseries  of  our  Mothers, 

These   seaside   dreams   and   sunny   streams 

Shall  they  pass  on  to  others? 
These  balmy  groves  and  sparkling  coves 

And  breezes  ocean-laden — 
No  Indian  lad  the  shades  to  tread, 

No  step  of  Indian  maiden? 

Who  then  shall  guard  the  Indian's  graves? 

Who  mourn  the  tribes  departed? 
Who  drop  a  tear  for  nameless  braves 

The  true  and  noble-hearted? 
Like  circling  seagulls  o'er  the  brine, 

Like   flight  of  frightened  plover, 

1  see  the  ghosts  of  vanished  hosts, 
The  maiden  and  her  lover. 

And   Chincoteague  and  Pungoteague, 

Onancock  and  Mosongo, 
And  Occohannock,  Watchapreague, 

Matomkin,  Machapungo — 
The  names  shall  float  on  down  the  years 

In  weird  reverberations, 
The  epitaphs  of  fallen  Chiefs, 

Death-songs  of  buried  nations ! 

I'm  left  a  Queen !  but  I  have  seen 

The  deepening  of  the  shadows, 
The  apparitions  in  the  pines, 

The  spectres  on  the  meadows; 


142  Makemieland    Memorials 

O  woe  is  me !  I  see,  I  see, 
Like  cloud-drifts  on  the  water, 

The  wraiths  of  Wackawamp's  dead  crown 
And  sceptre  of  his  daughter ! 

Manitt!  Manitt!  the  Redmen's  God, 

What  journey  hast  Thou  taken, 
Away,  away,  with  spear  and  rod 

And  left  our  tribes  forsaken? 
Or  is  there  yet  some  Mightier  One 

Now  marshalling  His  legions, 
Who  marches  with  the  Westering  sun 

To  claim  these  Western  regions? 


ANOTHER    FAMILY    GATHERING. 

Mother  dear,  our  fair  Rehoboth, 

'Mid  the  zephyrs  soft  and  low, 
There  was  musing,  in  the  gloaming, 

Of  the  pensive  Long  Ago ; 
And  the  breeze  was  in  the  cedars, 

And  the  fairies  in  the  oak, 
And  the  spell  of  days  departed 

Rested  on  the  Pocomoke. 

Then  our  Mother,  fair  Rehoboth, 

With  her  shoulders  bending  now, 
And  the  grace  of  age  upon  her 

And  the  white  locks  on  her  brow ; 
'Mid  the  chirping  of  the  robins 

And  the  humming  of  the  bees, 
She  had  gathered  there  her  children 

At  her  fond  maternal  knees. 

There  were  clustered  good  Monokin, 
And  Snow  Hill  as  white  as  snow, 

Rare  Pitts  Creek,  gray  Rockawalkin, 
And  the  spry  Wicomico; 


Makemieland    Memorials  143 

And  above,  along  the  seaside, 

Little  modest  Buckingham; 
Six  choice  daughters  'mid  the  pine  trees, 

Laurel  bloom  and  myrtle  balm. 

"Come  and  gather  close,  my  daughters, 
Listen  to   my  words  awhile" — 
Thus  the  voice  of  fair  Rehoboth, 
With  the  sunlight  in  her  smile — 
"I  will  tell  you  now  a  story 

That  will  stir  your  heart,  my  dears, 
Tale  of  rich  ancestral  splendors 
In  the  reminiscent  years. 

"Where  your  Presbyterian   fathers 
Sought  a  refuge  o'er  the  sea, 
That   their   worship   be   untrammeled, 
And  the  conscience  might  be  free; 
Where  they  scattered  through  the  forests 

And  along  the  quiet  streams ; 
Here  they  waited  for  the  Gospel, 

Breathed  their  prayers  and  dreamed  their 
dreams. 

"Hark,  ye  saints,  the  news  is  spreading, 

Stealing  through  the  solitudes, 
'Mid  the  ripples  of  the  rivers 

And  the  silence  of  the  woods ; 
He  is  coming,  he  is  coming. 

And  a  burst  of  joy  is  heard, 
Young  Makemie,   brave   Makemie, 

The  Apostle  of  the  Lord ! 

'Yes,  his  keel  is  on  the  waters — 

Gladsomely  the  morning  broke; 
Loud  hosannas  wake  the  echoes 

Up  and  down  the  Pocomoke; 
Far  and  wide  the  tale  is  flying, 

Up  and  down,  and  up  and  down ; 
He  has  landed,  blest  Evangel, 

In  aroused  Rehoboth  Town ! 


144  Makemieland    Memorials 

"Col  Stevens  wrote  the  letter, 

God  in  Heaven  endorsed  the  Call ; 
He  is  speaking,  he  is  preaching, 

Blue-eyed  son  of  Donegal ! 
They  are  listening — hallelujah — 

Scotch  and  Irish,  one  and  all, 
Quakers,  Anglicans  and  Indians, 

To  the  son  of  Donegal! 

'"Twas  not  long  before  Monokin, 

Good  Pitts  Creek,  Wicomico, 
Glad  Snow  Hill  and  Rockawalkin, 

All  as  blue  as  indigo, 
Had  Makemie  in  their  wigwams 

Joining  in  with  song  and  psalm, 
Chorus   of  the   clustered   daughters 

Clear  on  up  to  Buckingham. 

"Blessings  on  my  group  of  children 
Worthy  of  the   Pioneers, 

Faithful  heirs  and  witness-bearers 

Through  these  long  two  hundred  years : 

Live  for  God  in  love  together, 
One  aspiring  family : 

Banded  close  for  grand  advances- 
See  the  lights  along  the  sky ! 

"There  our  Founder  raised  his  banners 

By  the  fine*  old  Stevens  home — 
Bible  name  upon  the  breezes, 

Yes  Rehoboth — there  is  room  ! 
Room   for  all   the  loyal  workers 

Whereso'er   Makemie   trod 
And  in  faith  and  toil  preempted 

This  Peninsula  for  God !" 

Thus  our   Mother,  old  Rehoboth, 
With  her  fragrant  memories  full, 

Sturdy  still  for  love  and  duty, 
Calvinistic,  venerable, 


Makemieland    Memorials  145 

Sits  beneath  her  sacred  bowers, 

Grounds  by  her  Makemie  given, 
Invoking  on  her  thousand  daughters 

Light  and  joy  and  peace  from  Heaven! 


CARRIE'S    PETS. 


A  Monday  Morning  Recreation. 

In  fair  and  rare  Batrachian  Land, 

Among  the  limped  streams, 
The    murmuring   brooks    and    fairy   nooks, 

Where   Genus  Rana  dreams ; 
Where  Tadpoles  by  the  myriads 

Enliven  all  the  bogs, 
Behold  the  Schoolfields  and  the  Polks 

Importing  Polliwogs ! 

With  Tadpoles  thick  in  marsh  and  pond, 

In  puddle  and  in  pool. 
With  Tadpoles  dancing  in  and  out 

Like  little  girls  at  school ; 
With  Tadpoles  playing  hide  and  seek 

Like  busy  demagogues, 
Here  comes  the  quaintest  quirk  of  all — 

Imported   Polliwogs ! 

Are  Tadpole  breeds  degenerate. 

Like  some  of  us  in  town? 
Is  Tadpole  aristocracy 

Beginning  to  run  down? 
Is  there  a  higher  grade  required, 

A  nobler  strain  of  frogs, 
That  we're  compelled  to  look  abroad 

For  fancy  Polliwogs? 

I  hear  the  Bull  Frog  in  his  den, 

Protest  in  venom  green — 
'What   in   creation — ation — ation 

Do  Polks  and  Schoolfields  mean ! 


[46  Makemieland    Memorials 

Are  they  reflecting  on  the  cult 
Of  us  blue-blooded  frogs, 

That  thus  they're  trying  to  invent 
Superior  Polliwogs?" 

I  hear  the  Pinkapanky's  grunt, 

The  Rainfrogs  and  the  Toads, 
As   they  in   indignation  met, 

Awaken  all  the  woods; 
Insulted  by  this  grim  affront 

Upon  their  synagogues, 
Impeached  by  importation  dire 

Of  foreign   Polliwogs ! 

One  mad  Batrachian  swelled  and  puffed 

And  swelled  until  he  spoke — 
"My  blood's  as  good  as  any  blood 

That  flows  in   Pocomoke ! 
My  proud  ancestry  sat  enthroned 

Upon  the  River  logs 
A  thousand  years  before  you  brought 

Your  alien  Polliwogs ! 

"I  laugh  at  your  Aquariums ! 

I  scorn  and^  djrn  disdain  ! 
My  home  is  in  the  wide  lagoons, 

The  world  is  my  domain! 
In  freedom's  wilds  my  frow  and  I 

Enjoy  our  dialogues. 
And  spawn  our  vast  posterity — 

Confound  your  Polliwogs ! 

"What  splendid  specimens  you've  got ! 

Black  demons  mum  and  grum, 
And  not  a  croak  or  Howdy  spoke 

From  your  Tadpolium ! 
Ah  listen  to  our  minstrelsy 

Amid  the  fens  and  fogs ; 
Then  gaze  upon  the  countenances 

Of  your  old  Polliwogs ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  147 

'I  think  of  other  frisky  things 

A-wriggling  up  and  down — 
The  croakers  seeing  only  ill 

In  Pocomoky  Town  ; 
Perhaps  you  might  improve  your  cats, 

Or  howls  of  civic  dogs, 
Or  polish  up  the  pedigrees 

Of  human  Polliwogs ! 
'Perhaps   that   Town  Library  grand 

You're  hoping  soon  to  see ; 
Perhaps  you  mean  to  start  a  School 

To  learn  Tadpology ! 
Perhaps  you'd  drain  the  hidden  quags 

Of  secret  drams  and  grogs, 
And  purify  the  atmosphere 

Of  boozy  Polliwogs !" 


MY    MADONNA. 


The  world  is  full  of  gladness, 

Since  baby  came,  since  baby  came 
The  sad  has  lost  its  sadness, 

Since  baby  came; 
Oh  beauty  rich  and  rare. 
There's  beauty  in  the  air, 
There's   beauty   everywhere, 
Since  baby  came ! 

But  nothing  to  compare, 
No  sweetness  anywhere 
Like  darling  little  Mother, 
The  precious  little  Mother ! 

The  crimson  rose  blooms  brighter, 
Since  baby  came,  since  baby  came : 

The  lily's  cheek  is  whiter, 
Since  baby  came; 

All  glistening  in  God's  light, 

All  beauteous  in  God's  sight, 


148  Makemieland    Memorials 

The  flowers  a  new  delight. 
Since  baby  came ! 

But  never  a  bloom  so  bright, 
No  petal  pure  and  white, 
As  darling  little  Mother, 
The  precious  little  Mother ! 

The  wrens  are  sweeter  singing, 

Since  baby  came,  since  baby  came 
The  robins'  notes  are  ringing, 

Since  baby  came; 
The  grove  with  music   stirs, 
A   warblers'   universe, 
All  happy  choristers, 

But  to  proud  Papa's  ears, 
No  music  equals  hers, 
The  darling  little  Mother, 
The  precious  little  Mother ! 

No  girl  like  Papa's  girl, 

Since  baby  came,  since  baby  came ; 
No  pearl  like  Papa's  pearl, 

Since   baby   came; 
The  heiress  of  the   race, 
To  love  and  cheer  and  bless, 
She  fills  a  boundless  space, 
Since  baby  came ! 

But  never  can  displace 
The  angel  form  and  face 
Of   darling  little   Mother, 
The  precious  little  Mother ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  149 


EASTERN  SHORE  GRAVE  IN  THE  WEST. 


Born  in  Maryland,  died  in  Louisiana,  Asleep  in  Missouri. 

It  was  the  last  time,  and  she  kenw  it  well, 
That  she  should  ever  pass  those  doors  alive 
And  sit  in  worship  in  the  old  Rock  Church. 
When  next  she  came  that  way,  she  would  be  borne 
By  reverent  hands  and  hearts  and  gently  laid 
Before  the  pulpit.    Garbed  in  purest  white, 
She  took  her  place  surrounded  by  choice  friends, 
Friends  whom  she  loved  in  life  next  to  her  God, 
Their  ever-loyal  hearts  enshrined  in  hers; 
For,  having  loved,  she  loved  on  to  the  end. 

The  organ  chimed  of  Heaven ; 

The  dear  old  Hymns  and  Psalms 
Uplifting  toward  the   Sinless   Climes 

Where  wave  the  victor's  palms ; 
I  think  that  low  responses 

Through   all  that  holy  hour 
Came  echoing  back  to  her  rapt  thought 

From  God's  Celestial  Choir. 

Her  hands  and  neck  and  face  were  Parian; 

Within  her  veins  the  life-blood  pulsing  slow 

And  leaving  paleness  where  red  roses  used 

To  bloom.    Her  raiment  fell  about  her  form 

All  marble-like,  and  all  was  stainless  white, 

A  vision  as  of  lilies  and  of  snow-flakes. 

We  thought  of  angels  and  the  aspodels, 

Of  Heavenly  purity  that  knows  no  spot, 

Of  those  transplanted  ones  whose  robes  are  washed 

From  every  stain  by  Sacrificial  Blood. 

Ah  was  there  ever  whiteness 

More  rare  than  hers  that  day — 
Fair  emblem  of  the  saintliness 

In  gardens  far  away ! 


150  Makemieland    Memorials 

I'm  sure  her  thoughts  were  blossoms 

Whose  petals  too  were  white, 
And  had  their  holy  kindredship 

In  vales  of  undimmed  light! 

We  wonder  how  they  feel,  the  waiting  ones, 
Who  know  they  walk  along  the  Borderland, 
Prepared  at  any  moment  now  to  step 
Across  the  line  and  share  the  Great  Beyond ! 
We  wonder  how  they  thrill  when  thinnest  veil 
Hangs  vague  between  until  they  scarcely  know 
Upon  which  side  they  are — like  Paul  of  old, 
The  mists  lit  up,  the  bright  Third  Heavens  in  view. 
'Twas  thus  she  sat  and  hardly  knew  if  songs 
They  sang  were  born  of  earth  or  Paradise ! 

And   never   was  there   whiteness 
More  white  that  day  than  hers, 

There  seated  in  the  old  Rock  Church 
Among  the  worshipers ; 

The  streams  of  life  were  flowing 
On  both  sides  Jordan's  strand, 

The  desert  sands  behind  her 
And  close  the  Promised  Land ! 

While  on  this  visit,  it  had  been  her  thought 
To  die  in  Marshall,  fair  Ridge  Park  in  sight. 
She  had  in  mind  the  welcomes  when  she  came, 
The  Pastor's  wife,  a  stranger  but  not  long; 
The  sheen  of  many  an  unforgotten  day; 
Sweet  homes  thrown  ever  wide  to  greet  her  steps 
And  gild  her  life.    The  Ladies  Mission  Band, 
Her  joy  next  to  her  husband  and  her  child — 
To  live  with  them,  to  die  with  them  were  sweet, 
And  have  them  light  her  pathway  to  the  grave ! 

With  them  had  grown  the  whiteness 

Whiter  as  years  passed  on, 
Nearer  the  Land  of  Spotlessness, 

Nearer  the  Great  White  Throne; 


Makemieland    Memorials  151 

One  of  that  Band,  her  neighbor, 

Already  passed  away, 
Was  at  the  gates  to  meet  her, 

The  white-robed  Mattie  Rae. 

There  was  no  dread — no  shrinking  at  the  thought — 
A  death  in  Marshall.    Thence  her  Mother  went, 
She  too  as  white  as  ever  walked  the  earth 
Or  entered  Heaven ;  yonder  her  body  lay 
Awaiting  companionship.    There  would  sleep 
In  coming  years  full  many  a  treasured  friend — 
Jean  Campbell  and  the  rest.   These  genial  homes 
Appeared  not  far,  these  Shrines  of  prayer  not  far, 
From  bowers  of  Evergreen  beyond  the  storms, 
The  final  haven  of  the  purified. 

For  here  they  put  on  whiteness, 

The  winsome  sisterhood — 
Baptismal  vows,   Communion  Feasts, 

The   water  and  the  blood; 
And   so  the   Highway   whitens 

To  holier  scenes  above — 
The  tarnish  and  the  taint  exchanged 

For  consummated  love ! 

And  there  she  sat  in  that  symbolic  drapery, 
White  as  the  whitest  dove  that  soars  and  skims 
The  upper  airs.    The  skies  seem  bending  near 
Till  earthly  praise  and  Heavenly  praise  were  one. 
Whom  prayed  she  for  at  such  an  hour?    Whose  names 
Were  borne  aloft  upon  her  strong  white  faith 
And  carried  fondly  to  Jehovah's  Throne? 
Whom  prayed  she  for.  the  last  until  ere  long 
She  should  be  brought  to  pause  within  those  Courts 
Upon  her  travel  to  the  chosen  grave? 

We  thought  of  the  fine  linen, 

The  vesture  pure  and  white, 
The  righteousness  of  sainted  ones, 

The  palms  almost  in  sight; 


152  Makemieland    Memorials 

'Twas  more  than  earthly  beauty 

That  all  about  her  shone, 
The  likeness  of  the  glorified 

About  the  great  White  Throne ! 

And  thus  she  came  and  went,  to  tread  those  aisles 

No  more.    Saline  had  seen  an  angel  pass. 

Some  disappointment  to  her  waiting  wings, 

Not  to  ascend  from  these  Missouri  fields — 

So  passed  she  Southward,  there  to  bleach  and  pale 

And  spread  her  pinious  on  the  Southern  breeze ; 

And  then  give  back  to  her  old  favorite  Church 

The  faded  form  and  the  magnolia  tints — 

Her  casket  given  by  warm  Dixie  hearts, 

These  grounds  bestowed  by  bosoms  just  as  true! 

And  thus  beyond  the  shadows, 

The  turmoil   and  the  strife, 
'Mid  visions  of  the  Cloudless  Land, 

We  thought  of  her  white  life; 
'Twas  easy  to  conceive  her 

Where   living   waters  flow, 
Arrayed  in  robes  immaculate 

And  whiter  than  the  snow ! 

And  many  a  treasure  sleeps  in  fair  Ridge  Park 
As  dear  to  sundered  hearts  as  she  to  ours. 
A  thousand  graves,  increasing  year  by  year, 
Make  this  old  hill  more  hallowed  all  the  while ; 
Each  lowered  coffin  holding  some  rare  gem 
And  linking  earth  and  Heaven  in  neighborhood. 
And  preacher's  wives  rest  here  with  those  who  preach 
And  those  who  hear.    Thus  congregations  leave 
The  pulpits  and  the  pews  for  good  Ridge  Park, 
And  here  await  the  white-robes  and  the  palms. 

Ah  the  whiteness,  Ah  the  whiteness, 

When  the  Archangel's  trump  shall  sound, 

Gathered  treasures,  flawless  jewels, 
From  the  dear  old  burial  ground ; 


Makemieland    Memorials  153 

Ah  the  whiteness,  without  blemish, 

Open  tombs  and  bright  array, 
Decorations,  Coronations, 

When   we  meet  on  that  glad  day ! 

A  lover  of  Ridge   Park  from  far  away 

Sees  gathered  hosts  to-day  upon  the  hill, 

Sweet  blossoms  mingling  with  sweet  memories — 

The  dead  more  fondly  loved  as  years  go  by, 

Hearts  clinging  still — and  it  is  beautiful! 

And  then  above  these  scenes  I  seem  to  see 

A  cloud   of  witnesses  from  yonder  sky 

Now  looking  down  in  smiles,  our  living  dead. 

As  true,  endearing,  as  they  ever  were — 

And  Heaven  and  earth  appear  to  meet  and  touch  ! 

May  they  not,  the  dear  departed, 

Hover   o'er   this   sacred   scene, 
And  your  darlings  anc'   my  Ellen, 

Gazing  from  the  Heights   serene. 
Garbed  in  whiteness  everlasting, 

Answering   from  the  joys  above, 
See  to-day  our  upturned  faces, 

Feel  the  throbbing  of  our  love  ! 

Decoration   Day,    1910. 


FACING    THE    SUNRISE. 

Optimistic?  surely,  surely!  At  the  age  of 
seventy-seven, 

Border-lights  like  stars  at  evening  all  along 
the  verge   of  Heaven, 

With  the  hopefulness  of  Springtime  and  the 
ozone  in  the  air, 

God  in  nature,  God  in  Scripture,  God  in  move- 
ments   everywhere, 

Why  not  gladden  with  the  gladness,  all  the  old 
man's  bosom   stirred 

With  the  brightness  of  the  promise  and  the 
glory  of  the  Lord ! 


154  Makemieland    Memorials 

And  I  know  the  world  is  better,  growing  better 
all  the  time, 

With  the  Apostolic  Gospel  fresh  as  in  its  early 
prime, 

God's  elect  in  vaster  numbers  now  responding 
to  the  call, 

Mor?  than  in  the  days  of  Peter  or  the  minis- 
try of  Paul ; 

And  the  heathen  tribes  are  listening  as  they 
never  had  before, 

And  afar  from  East  to  Westward  stands  ajar 
the  open  door. 

I  have  seen  the  Churches  fighting  in  the  fabled 

good  old  days, 
Hostile    camps    in    bristling    armor,    raids    and 

Theologic   frays ; 
Now  we  see  them  clothed  in  beauty,   drawing 

closer  side  by  side, 
Joined  against  the  common  foemen,  hearts  and 

temples  open  wide, 
Brotherhood  in  pew  and  pulpit,  hand   in  hand 

and  knee  to  knee, 
Moving  under  One  Great  Leader  on  to  certain 

victory ! 

I  have  seen  the  nation  ravaged,  red  with  fratri- 
cidal gore, 

Hate,  malignity,  oppression,  even  when  the  war 
was  o'er ; 

I  have  seen  the  rancor  fading  and  the  anger 
pass  away, 

Hand  in  hand  the  grand  old  warriors,  wearers 
of  the  blue  and  gray, 

And  the  South  according  honors  to  the  brows 
of  Northern  braves, 

And  the  Yankees  laying  chaplets  on  the  grassy 
Southern  graves. 


Makemieland    Memorials  155 

In  the  floods  and  conflagrations  and  the  earth- 
quake's awful  scourge, 

Lo,  from  every  State  and  Section,  like  the 
ocean's  tidal  surge, 

Flowed  the  gifts  of  men  and  women,  and  the 
contributions  poured 

Like  the  streaks  of  dawn  prophetic  and  the  lar- 
gess of  the  Lord ; 

These  are  footprints  of  the  Gospel,  these  are 
signs  along  the  way 

Of  the  coming  of  the  kingdom  and  the  sweet 
Millennial    day ! 

Hark !  grim  Mars  has  had  his  warning  that  his 

bloody  fueds  must  cease, 
Louder  calls  to  arbitration  from  the  conquering 

"Prince  of   Peace, 
And  a  notice  to  the  nations  and  the  rulers  that 

they  pause 
In  the  slaughter  of  the  people  and  in  trampling 

on   God's   laws ; 
That  they  beat  their  swords  to  ploughshares  and 

their  spears  to  pruning  hooks 
And    the    virtues    spring    like    flowers    by    old 

Eden's    water-brooks ! 

In  my  time  I've  seen  the  voters  all  aroused  and 

in  their  wrath 
Driving  tempter  and  temptation  from  the  poor 

inebriate's  path ; 
Nay,  dire  alcohol's  sad  victim  standing  voting 

side  by  side, 
Under  waving  temperance  banners  for  his  babies 

and  his  bride, 
And  the  smiling  of  the  rescued  and  the  grasping 

of  the  hand 
As  the  plaudits  of  thanksgiving  go  resounding 

through  the  land ! 


156  Makemieland    Memorials 

Yes,  Oh  yes,  the  world  is  better  since  my  years 
began  to  be, 

And  the  gladness  is  around  me  like  the  song 
of  bird  and  bee, 

And  the  blossoms  grow  in  sweetness  as  the 
bosom  grows  in  love, 

As  my  steps  are  drawing  nearer  to  the  gardens 
up  above, 

While  the  large  horizon  brightens  and  a  rain- 
bow gems  the  tears, 

And  the  hardnesses  grow  mellow  with  the 
softening  of  the  years. 

And  the  Bible  blooms  with  fragrance  and  the 
Churches  nearer  grow 

With  the  promise  of  to-morrow  mingled  with 
the  Long  Ago, 

And  the  former  ties  are  richer  and  new  light 
is  on  the  sky 

For  the  King  in  all  His  beauty  will  be  coming 
by  and  bye, 

And  the  sheen  of  hope  supernal  all  about  my 
way  entwines 

Like  the  freshness  of  the  cedars  and  the  green- 
ness of  the  pines ! 


TRAMPING   IT. 


June,   1910. 

And  forth  we  hied,  two  gallant  knights, 
To  mount  the  winds  and  see  the  sights : 
A  Barrister  and  Parson  joined, 
The  Law  and  Gospel  intertwined, 
To  breathe  the  seaside  breezes  bland, 
And   sample   fair  Makemieland. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  summers  back, 
The  Bowens  dropped  on  Accomac, 


Makemieland    Memorials  157 

Spread  through  the  Shore  till  they  became 

An  host- — and  Legion  was  their  name. 

More  than  a  century  ago, 

McMaster    rode    these    regions    through, 

And  thought  of  Heaven  and  preached  the  Word, 

And  sat  at  Madam  Holden's  board, 

And,  crowning  glory  of  his  life, 

He  captured  a  Virginia  wife ! 

And  now  these  modern  Tramps  swing  round 

This  thoughtful  old  historic  ground, 

And,  while  the  Past  about  them  plays, 

Imbibe   the   spell   of  ancient   days. 

Two  border  Counties  close  of  kin 
Salute  and  kiss  across  the  line, 
Each  in  its  State  a  King  or  Queen, 
With  kindred  blood  a-flow  between ; 
And  Worcester — beau  from  ages  back — 
Still  tips  his  hat  to  Accomac, 
While   both   conserve    ancestral    Shrines, 
And  share  the  balsams  of  the  Pines. 

With  reverent  brow  we  bow  to  thee, 
Great  State  of  Washington  and  Lee ; 
We  stand  on  soil  where  Cropper  rose 
In  wrath  against  his  country's  foes. 
And  by  his  tomb  we  stand  and  praise 
This  Paladin  of  martial  days, 
So  prompt  with  bayonet  and  gun 
To  hasten  to  our  Washington ; 
While  good  Anne  Holden's  cheering  words 
Give  keenness  to  the  flashing  swords, 
Intent  to  break  the  Despot's  chains, 
Her  Father's  fervor  in  her  veins. 
To-day  Sir  John  and  I  yet  feel 
Virginia's  pulse  still  staunch  as  steel ! 

And  so  we  rambled  on  and  on, 
The  Parson  and  his  Chaperon, 
For  if  there's  ever  man  with  powers 
To  hoodoo  all  the  flying  hours, 


158  Makemieland    Memorials 

Distill  the  nectar,  catch  the  fun, 

And  get  the  juice  out — that's  John! 

For  never  in  his  life  before 

Was  hustling  Preacher  made  to   soar 

Athwart  so  many  charming  scenes 

In  that  glad  Land  of  Evergreens, 

And  meet  so  many  rarest  folks 

And  hear  so  many  sparkling  talks ; 

The  rapid  flight  of  pleasant  miles, 

The  twinkle  of  congenial  smiles — 

Like  plays  of  bright  kaleidoscopes — 

For  gallant  John,  he  knew  the  ropes, 

Where  dwelt  the  Muses  and  the  Graces, 

Just  where  to  find  the  fairest  faces, 

And  where  at  fragrant  doors  to  knock 

In   Drummondtown.  and   Onancock; 

For  if  some  wizard  of  renown 

Knows  best  Virginia's  sweets — that's  John ! 

Full   thirty  good   long   Summers   gone, 
The  County's  staunch  and  honored  son, 
The  genial  Custis,  welcomed  me 
With  frank  Virginian  courtesy, 
And  aided  in  my  sacred  quest 
As  still  I  delved  and  on  I  pressed 
In  tireless  and  determined  strife 
To  bring  Makemie  back  to  life; 
And  now  our  Founder's  come  to  stay, 
While  Custis  since  has  passed  away; 
By  his  good  daughter  welcomed  there, 
'Twas    pleasant   breathing   his   home-air. 
Thus  when  the  living  all  are  gone, 
That  Shaft  on  Holden's  will  live  on ! 

Rare  Rural  Hill's  enchanted  aisles, 
No  Eden  serpent  in  ten  miles, 
Expectant  Eve  awaiting  there 
Unfallen  Adam  to  appear; 
The   Rector's   Apostolic   fun 
Meandering  down  from  Jefferson ; 


Makemieland    Memorials  159 

Like   Roman   Matron's   Gracchi   pearls, 
Two  darling  little  Fletcher  girls; 
Then  Bowman's  Folly's  paradise, 
With  all  its  famed  celebrities — 
Within  whose  classic  shades  to  lie 
Would  make  it  easier  to  die ; 
Mount  Custis  and  her  grand  Grandees, 
The  booming  of  the  neighboring  seas, 
Matomkin  gladdening  to  the  East, 
The  brooding  peace  for  host  and  guest, 
Where  fresh  the  sweet  rose-arbor  grows 
To  deck  its  choicest  human  rose ! 

Then  off  to  the  historic  Creek, 

The  child  and  bride  of  Chesapeake, 

Where  our  Makemie  used  to  preach, 

Where  Nature  woos  with  mystic  speech ; 

Where  we,  as  hungry  as  Arabs, 

Devoured   Onancock's   fish   and   crabs ; 

And  where  by  St.  Naomi's  Shrine, 

The    Powell   tables  are   divine; 

Then  known  and  loved  through  all  these  parts, 

The  Poulson  sisters — bless  their  hearts — 

The  pride  that  still  on  Dixie  doats, 

Jeff  Davises  in  petticoats, 

And,  better  still,  of  Calvin's  clans, 

Blue  Southern  Presbyterians ; 

And  then  we  loved  her  as  she  came, 

The  Fairy  with  old-fashioned  name, 

Wee  Charlotte,  making  kindred  rich ; 

And  was  she  birdling?  was  she  witch? 

Was   she   cherub  undefined1? 

Or  just  a  little  Dixie  child? 

If  you'd  enjoy  romantic  dreams, 

Go  thread  those  "Necks"  between  the  streams, 

The  sparkle  of  the  Creeks  and  Bays> 

The  glamour  of  departed  days, 

Poetic   fancies  in  the  air, 

Old  family  graveyards  here  and  there, 


160  Makemieland    Memorials 

And   verdant   vale   and   rustic  hill, 

Where  vague  Tradition  lingers  still, 

And  Legend  faithful  vigil  keeps, 

And  sometimes  laughs  and  sometimes  weeps, 

And  ancient  blood  flows  on  content, 

The  bluest  on  the  Continent — 

Like  limpid  brook  in  sylvan  glades 

That  filters  through  the  woodland  shades. 

The  denizens  of  these  fair  lands 

Possess  the  art  of  shaking  hands. 

The  inner  magic  in  the  clasp, 

The  heart's  pulsations  in  the  grasp, 

The  winsome  welcomes  on  the  lips 

And  clear  on  out  to  finger-tips — 

And  in  a  trice  the  deed  is  done, 

The  conquest  made,  the  guest  is  won ! 

If  still  you  lack  the  subtle  knack, 

Go  take  a  trip  through  Accomac, 

And  as  the  keynote  to  the  song, 

Be  sure  to  have  our  John  along — 

To  catch  the  charm,  evoke  the  thrills, 

Adore  the  Pines — and  pay  the  bills ! 


OUR   MOTHER. 


Andasia    Ironshire    Franklin    Bowen 
Died  at  Sunset  May  31st,  1864. 

Month  of  laddie's  Ordination, 

Last  sunset  of  bonny  May, 
Looking  toward  the  pearly  portals, 

Queen  of  Mothers  passed  away ; 
'Mid  the  requiem  bass  of  Ocean, 

Ever  changing,  changeless  Sea — 
And,  no,  never,  since  she  faded, 

Was  this  world  the  same  to  me ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  161 

She  had  wished,  and  his  petitions 

By  her  dying  couch  arise ; 
Ah,  she'd  only  hear  his  sermons, 

Listening  from  the  Upper  Skies — 
In   the   pulpits   of   the   future, 

Through  the  earth's  wide  wilderness, 
Weariness  and  journeyings  often, 

Lone  and  longing,  Motherless ! 

Mother's  heart — no  jewel  like  it, 

In  its  casket  pure  impearled ; 
Oh  the  Eastern  Shore's  sweet  Mothers 

Are  the  sweetest  in  the  world ! 
All  the  choicest  call  her  Cousin ; 

Each  beholder  loves,  admires ; 
Bosom  deep  as  old  Atlantic, 

Daughter  of  the  Ironshires ! 

I 
Youngest  of  her  dozen  children, 

Baby  of  her  older  days, 
He  looked  forward  to  achievement 

For  her  sake  and  for  her  praise ; 
So  he  dreamed  and  planned  his  sermons. 

So  he  dallied  with  his  pen ; 
Then  she  died — and  inspiration 

Ne'er  was  quite  the  same  again ! 

Green  old  age  and  rich  and  fragrant, 

'Twas  not  hard  for  her  to  go; 
As  the  lotus  folds  its  petals 

In  the  sunset's  amber  glow ; 
So   she  faded,  gently  faded, 

As  upon  the  verge  we  stood — 
Passing  from  her  beds  of  roses 

To  the  gardens  of  her  God ! 

We  had  thought  our  Mother  aged, 

And  it  helped  to  check  our  tears ; 
Now  her  boys,  the  three  old  whiteheads, 

All  have  passed  our  Mother's  years ; 


162  Makemieland    Memorials 

Long  has  been  the  way  without  her, 
Thickening  snow  upon  our  brow ; 

But  of  late  the  hurrying  seasons 
Seem  to  bring  her  nearer  now! 

Growing  real  in  the  gloaming, 

Smiling  with  the  olden  smile, 
And  we  know  we  tread  the  borders 

For  she's  closer  all  the  while; 
And  we're  glad;  for  since  that  sunset 

When  the  angel  escort  came, 
Life  and  home  and  birds  and  blossoms 

Never   since  have  been  the  same! 

None  could  tell  in  former  seasons, 

'Mid  the  olden,  golden  hours, 
Which  our  Mother  loved  the  better 

Her  three  laddies  or  her  flowers ; 
Well,  it  comes — another  sunset — 

And  beyond  the  solitude, 
We  will  walk  beside  our  Mother 

In  the  gardens  of  her  God! 


MARYLAND   VENISON. 

I  sing  the  Musk  Rat !    Your  big-headed  Bards 

May  rant  all  they  please  of  their  Monarchs  and  Lords ; 

I'll  warble  my  ditties  and  toss  up  my  hat 

For  Eastern  Shore  goodies  and  the  bonny  Musk  Rat ! 

Marsh   Rabbit's  the  nickname  they  poke  at  him  now, 
The  frill  which  the  Epicures  weave  for  his  brow ; 
No,  no — the  old  pet  name,  give  me  that,  give  me  that — 
As  I  knew  him  in  childhood,  my  chummy  Musk  Rat ! 

The  Cotton  Tail's  trail  I  have  tracked  through  the  woods ; 

The  pines  and  the  laurels  and  dim  solitudes ; 

My  traps  and  my  snares  and  the  fun  and  all  that — 

But    Br'er    Rabbit's    nowhere    when    you've    tasted    Musk    Rat ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  163 

They  rave  of  Jack  Rabbits  which  gaily  infest, 
With  ears  like  a  donkey's,  the  wild  wooly  West; 
You  fellows  may  eat  him — as  coarse  as  a  cat — 
I  claim  for  my  palate  the  toothsome  Musk  Rat ! 

So  clean  in  his  baths,  in  his  food  and  his  furs ; 

Fair  lady,  his  bedroom's  as  dainty  as  yours ; 

In  all  that's  fastidious  so  tidy  and  pat, 

And  none  more  aesthetic  than  our  dudish  Musk  Rat! 

The  balmy  marsh  breezes,  refreshing  and  sweet, 
Condense  and  combine  in  his  savory  meat ; 
And  Eastern  Shore  cooks  in  their  proud  habitat 
Beat  Esau's  red  pottage  with  the  ruddy  Musk  Rat ! 

A  splash  in  the  waters,  like  a  Naiad  he  glides 
'Mid  white  water  lilies  through  the  twilight  tides, 
A  friend  of  the  people  and  a  good  Democrat, 
And  gathers  his  flavors  for  my  stew  of  Musk  Rat ! 

.' 
Of  old  in  Matomkin's  salubrious  climes, 
The  days  of  the  heroes,  Revolution  times. 
The  sturdy  old  General,  our  Cropper  once  sat 
And  heated  his  prowess  on  steaming  Musk  Rat ! 

No  doubt  but  the  Knox  of  benign  Chesapeake 
Had  sampled  our  Rat  down  on  bright  Holden's  Creek; 
And  Anne  her  bold  hatred  for  Britons  begat 
While  playing  the  patriot — on  native  Musk  Rat ! 

And  thus  do  the  brave,  the  refined  and  the  fair 
Grow  sleek  on  these  viands  nutritious  and  rare; 
And  all  the  Nine  Muses — I'm  certain  of  that — 
Are  boosting  this  song  of  the  fragrant  Musk  Rat ! 


164  Makemieland    Memorials 


BLUE    MONDAY   TABOOED. 

Blue  Monday,  no,  no — I'll  now  of  your  gloom ! 
The  landscape  rejoices,  the  world  is  in  bloom; 
The  warblers  are  busy,  the  sun's  in  the  sky — 
They  have  no  Blue  Monday  and  neither  will  I ! 

Ere  Friday  has  ended,  my  sermons  are  done, 

And  Saturday  rest-day,  and  cares  not  a  one ; 

No  study,  no  worry,  no  nerves  to  carode — 

The  sermons  prayed  over  and  left  with  their  God ! 

A  Saturday  stroll  or  a  loll  'neath  the  trees, 

A  nap  or  a  scribbling  of  verses  like  these; 

A  belles  lettres  feast  or  a  neighborly  chat, 

Or  a  note  to  my  sweetheart  or  something  like  that. 

Then  Sunday,  bright  Sunday,  as  fresh  and  as  fair 
As  Sharon's  sweet  rose  with  its  cheer  in  the  air; 
The  pulpit  magnetic,  the  wide-awake  eyes 
That  sparkle  like  stars  in  the  Eastern  Shore  skies ! 

The  gladness  of  preaching,  the  life  of  the  Word, 
The  nearness  of  Heaven,  the  touch  of  the  Lord ; 
And  bosoms  respond  and  the  fervor  expands — 
The  warming  of  hearts  and  the  pressure  of  hands. 

Now  Monday  dawns  smiling — no  burden  that  day; 
The   shepherd   in  quiet  can  lovingly  pray 
For  the  sheep  and  the  lambs  while  he  sips  from  the  brooks 
That  flow  through  the  Edens  of  favorite  books. 

Perhaps  naughty  preachers,  the  trouble  with  you 
Is  eating  too  much  and  too  little  to  do ; 
Digestion  insulted,  a  scowl  on  the  cheek, 
And  so  your  Blue  Monday  drones  on  all  the  week ! 

Blue  Monday — no,  no ;  your  tricks  I  defy ! 
The  Sabbath  has  glorified  earth,  sea  and  sky ; 
Bravo  to  the  preacher  that  grumbles  no  more ; 
No  need  of  Blue-Monday  on  the  glad  Eastern  Shore ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  165 


OYSTERDOM  ANTIQUE  AND  MODERN. 

Old  Plantation  Creek — Divinely 
Floated  dreamy  fascinations 
All  about  the  stretch  of  waters, 
Over  hills  and  groves  and  marshes, 
Coves  and  curves  and  estuaries, 
Sparkling  with  their  myriad  diamonds, 
With  bright  Lyrics,  Epics,  Hymnals 
Written  on  the  slumberous  vistas : 
There  the  thoughtful  Creek  historic. 
As  we  sailed  among  the  ripples 
On  our  supple  launch  Louisa, 
On  us  played  its  spells  of  sorcery ; 
Beauteous  Chesapeake  behind  us, 
While    each    moment    new    enchantment, 
Full  of  musings  vague  and  mystic, 
Opened  on  the  view  before  us. 

Old    Plantation    Creek — upon    us 
Came  in  waves  the  old  traditions, 
Backward  near  three  hundred  Summers, 
Far  away  in   Sixteen — Fifteen, 
When    our    Eastern    Shore's    first    settlers 
Landed  here  amid  the  splendors, 
Wondering  at  the  wondrous  beauty, 
Scenes  primeval  gemmed  and  jeweled, 
Virgin  world,  profound,  mysterious, 
Eastern  Shore  a  smiling  wood-nymph 
Waiting  to  be  wooed  and  mated. 

There  we  landed  where  they  landed, 
Built  our  fires  where  they  had  built  them 
Brought  the  oysters  as  they  brought  them, 
Such  as  sung  by  Roman  Horace, 
Fat  and  luscious  from  their  sea-beds; 
While  the  olden  dreams  poetic, 
Like  the  soft  and  pensive  zephyrs, 
Breathed  upon  expectant    gourmands, 
Thinking    of    ancestral    oysters. 
Forbears  of  these  modern  treasures. 


166  Makemieland    Memorials 

Old  Plantation  Creek — Upon  it 

Stood  of  yore  the  Custis  mansion, 

Arlington   in  pride  and  plenty; 

Old  Dominion  with  its  Manors, 

Cavaliers  and  Lords  incipient, 

Planting   in   these   Western   furrows 

Pedigrees  and  Upper  Tendom. 

But  the  Serpent,  migratory, 

Enterprising    navigator, 

Steered  his  caravel  as  consort, 

Crept   intrusive  in  the  garden, 

And  again  tricked  Eve  and  Adam. 

Yonder  tomb  betrays  the  story, 

Tragedy  of  matrimony; 

Arlington's  unwedded   Winters, 

Seven  chilly  bachelor  Winters, 

Only  seven  worth  the  living 

To  the  doughty  Septuagenarian; 

Satire  gruesome  and  sepulchral, 

Graveyard  slam  on  that  poor  woman 

Who  thought  plunging  down  the  hillsides 

Straight  to  drowning  and  perdition 

Better  fate  than  life  with  Jonnie. 

There   they   feasted   'mid   such   landscapes, 

Fed  on  diamond-backs  and  oysters, 

Oysters  stewed  and  fried  and  scalloped, 

Viands  fit  for  wedded  angels ! 

Yet  the   shellfish  in  perfection, 

All  delicious,   rich,  nutritious, 

Failed  to  exorcise  the  Devil ! 

But  that  tombstone,  quaint  and  naughty 
Cannot  blight  our  present  banquet, 
For  our  fires  are  brightly  burning, 
And  the  tempting  shells  are  yawning, 
And  the  odors  are  ascending, 
Hungry  appetites  luxuriant. 
No,   that  cynical  old  tombstone, 
Cannot  nullify  the  relish 
Of  these  F.  F.  V's  of  oysters, 


Makemieland    Memorials  167 

Crowned  and  pedigreed  descendants 
Of  those  mentioned  by  John  Porey, 
First  acclaimed  in  Western  annals, 
Way,   way  back  in   Sixteen-seven, 
On  the  bottom  thick  as  pebbles, 
Predecessors  of  these  moderns, 
Ostrea  Edulis  in  science, 
Oysters  Eatable  de  facto. 

Thus  along  the  shores  romantic, 
Hazy  with  the  days  departed, 
Speckled  with  the   flight  of  seabirds, 
There  our  sceptred  cooks  were  smiling, 
Lou  and  Daisy,  Birdie,  Lilian, 
Opening  out  the  dainty  morsels 
With  their  deft  and  dainty  fingers, 
Happier  far  than  Madam  Custis. 
There  our  host,  Sir  Lem,  the  Captain, 
Big  as  burly  Indian  Chieftain, 
Superintends  the  rural  revels, 
Happy   in   dispensing  pleasures, 
Happy  in  the  joy  of  others, 
Bent  on  fattening  up  the  preacher, 
And  in  saving  all  the  women 
From  the  ghost  of  old  John  Custis ! 

Thus  the  palates  fed  and  feasted, 
Rioted,   luxuriated ; 
Thus  dimensions  were  distended 
With  some  strain  upon  the  vesture ; 
Oysters  roasting,  roasted  oysters, 
Dish  supremest  in  creation, 
Their  own  pearly  shells  the  dishes, 
Beating  all  your  Haviland  China, 
Dresden  Ware  or  Royal  Wooster; 
Roasting  in  their  natives  juices, 
Fresh  in  richness  from  their  sea-baths, 
Where  they  get  superbest  flavors 
From  the  gardens  of  the  mermaids, 
Seasoned  with  the  Ocean  breezes, 
Stimuli  and  appetizers — 
This  the  bivalve  in  excelsis ! 


168  Makemieland    Memorials 

No,  you  cannot  know   the  oyster, 
Oysterdom  in  all  its  glory, 
Till  you've  turned  an  Eastern  Shoreman 
Got  the  odors   from  the  pine-woods, 
Got  the  poems  from  the  laurel. 
From  the  cypress  and  the  myrtle ; 
Then  entice  his  royal  highness 
From  his  palace  in  the  sea-coves, 
Roast  him  with  his  memories  on  Him 
Of  the  algae  and  the  naiads, 
Mellowed  with  the  ancient  legends ; 
Now   ecstatic   with   your   captures, 
Smack  your  lips  and  feed  on  raptures ! 


INDIAN    SUMMER    LOVE. 

Dotage  maybe,  seeond  childhood, 

Twist  or  quirk  in  heart  or  head, 
Musing  lonely  in  the  wildwood, 

Autumn  splendors — and  he  said, 
'Merry,  modest,  misty  maiden, 

Bonny  Lita,  bird  or  star, 
Honey  bee  with  nectar  laden, 

White  in  thought  as  angels  are ; 
Bonny  Lita,  bonny  Lita, 
White  in  thought  as  angels  are !" 

Frosts  had  sered  the  landscapes  over, 

Many  a  tender  blossom  dead, 
Leaves  were  falling  and  the  clover 

Drooped  its  ensigns — while  he  said, 
'Sweetest  sweetheart,  ripe  and  mellow, 

Sweetest  sung  by  lip  or  pen, 
Sunburst,  loveburst,  winsome  Lita, 

And  my  heart  is  young  again  ; 
Bonny  Lita,  bonny  Lita, 
And   my   heart   is   young   again  I" 


Makemieland    Memorials  169 

Indian   Summer,  pensive  shadows, 

Goiden   rod   and   sumac   red. 
Mystic  haze  along  the  meadows, 

Birdsongs   flitting — and   he   said, 
'Ere  the  bleak  and  black  December 

Wide   his  blighting  blasts   unfurl, 
Ert  old  age  my  veins  encumber, 

She's  my  Indian  Summer  girl ; 
Bonny  Lita,  bonny  Lita, 
She's  my  Indian  Summer  girl ! 

'Souls  their  own  St.  Martin's   Summer,'' 

So  the  gray  day-dreamer  said, 
'Halcyon  days  ere  yet  life's  Winter 

Leaves  the  heart  untenanted ; 
Lita  brings  a  smell  of  flowers, 

Lita  gems  a  bridal  scene, 
Lita  crowns  the  Vernal  hours, 

Lita,   Indian  Summer  Queen ; 
Bonny  Lita,  bonny  Lita, 
She  my  Indian  Summer  Queen !" 


FRANCIS  TO  NAOMI. 

Naomi,  Naomi,  my  magnet  and  Star, 
The  fields  of  old  Ulster  are  silent  and  far ; 
The  Donegal  heather  has  faded  from  sight, 
The  waves  of  Lock  Swilly  are  moaning  to-night ; 
Green  Erin  is  shrouded  beyond  the  blue  sea — 
I  think  of  Naomi — is  she  thinking  of  me? 

Naomi,  Naomi,  my  fairest  and  best, 

'Twas  the  voice  of  Jehovah  that  called  to  the  West; 

I   flinched  not;   I'm  wearing  the  helmet  and  sword, 

In  the  might  of  the  Right  and  the  strength  of  the  Lord 

But  even  the  stoutest,  when  cares  overbear, 

Has  the  need  of  a  woman  to  cherish  and  cheer ! 


170  Makemieland    Memorials 

Naomi,  Naomi,  from  centre  to  strand, 

I  claim  for  the  Master  this  beautiful  land; 

These  Eastern  Shore  vistas  so  winsome  and  broad, 

I'm  writing  upon  them  the  name  of  their  God; 

But  brave  though  he  be  and  robust  in  his  pride, 

Man  needs  a  pure  woman  to  walk  by  his  side ! 

Naomi,  Naomi,  I  feel  and  confess, 

I'm  lonesome  at  times  in  this  vast  wilderness ; 

I  trudge  the  dark  swamps,  I  thread  the  dim  streams, 

Where    the    red   Indian    lurks    and   the    wild   beast    screams; 

I  fear  not,  I  shirk  not,  but  I  candidly  own 

A  bachelor  wigwam  is  somber  and  lone ! 

Naomi,  when  musing  at  twilight  I  sank 

Despondent  at  times  by  the  still  Matchatank; 

And  here  on  the  Pocomoke  weary  and  worn, 

I've   drooped   in   the   furrows   like  the   drought   on  the   corn ; 

The  stars  of  Rehoboth  swing  low  in  their  track 

And  call  for  the  lassie  of  fair  Accomack ! 

Naomi,  I  know  it — the  Master  has  sent 

His  servant  predestined  to  spend  and  be  spent ; 

But  when  I  am  passing  released  to  the  skies, 

I  want  woman's  fingers  to  close  the  tired  eyes ; 

And  when  the  bowl  breaks  and  the  waters  divide, 

Then  may  not  your  Francis   still   rest  by  your  side? 

Naomi,  I'm  hoping — it  comes  and  it  looms — 

To  plant  these  fair  landscapes  with  Bethany  homes ; 

In  sight  of  my  Churches,  the  angels  on  guard, 

The  laughter  of  children  and  the  smile  of  the  Lord, 

Like  the  song  in  the  clusters,  like  the  nest  in  the  vine, 

Shall  not  such  a  homestead  be  your  home  and  mine? 


Makemieland    Memorials  171 


NAOMI  TO  FRANCIS. 

Oh  Francis  Makemie,  you're  sudden  somewhat ! 
My  cheeks  are  like  embers — it's  fearfully  hot; 
There's  a  flutter  on  land  and  a  whirl  on  the  seas 
With  slight  intimations  of  heart-maladies ! 
You  shouldn't  have  done  it — devising  your  snares 
To  trap  a  young  maiden  all  unawares ! 

Oh  Francis  Makemie,  I  never  had  known 
That   Preachers   went  courting  as  Francis  has  done ! 
I've  heard  you  when  preaching  as  solemn  as  death, 
Till  all  were  in  tears  and  were  holding  our  breath; 
And  who  could  have  thought  it — so  earnest,  sublime, 
You  were  thinking  of  poor  little  me  all  the  time ! 

Oh  Francis  Makemie,  you've  a  wonderful  way 
Of  making  young  lassies  believe  what  you  say ! 
And  then  when  you  picture  the  long  dreary  road, 
Your  wilderness  cabin  and  labors  for  God, 
The  noble  ambitions,   the  Heavenly  goal, 
You  wake  up  the  womanhood  deep  in  my  soul ! 

Oh  Francis  Makemie,  shall  I  own  it  or  not? 

I'm  liking  you  better  than  ever  I  thought ! 

Your  words  are  like  music  that  floats  on  the  streams, 

You  talk  like  an  angel  that  visits  our  dreams ; 

The  girls  of  Virginia  are  tender  and  true — 

And  now  what's  beleaguered  young  maiden  to  do? 

My  Francis,  the  coast-winds  thy  eulogies  speak 

From  Ocean's  wide  waves  to  the  glad  Chesapeake; 

It's  a  poor  little  self  Naomi  can  bring; 

She  feels  so  unworthy  to  mate  with  the  King; 

But  Papa's  so  handy,  a  Justice  you  see, 

And  you'll  not  be  pestered  for  marriage  fee ! 


172  Makemieland    Memorials 

EASTERN    SHORE    TO    HER    BOYS. 

My  boy,  by  idle   fancies. 
By  playing  wild  romances. 
By  flirting  with  the  chances, 
Not  thus  true  life  advances — 
Not  luck  but  pluck ! 

'Tis   not  by   listless  dreaming, 
'Tis  not  by  reckless  scheming, 
'Tis   by  each   hour   redeeming, 
By  being  and  not  seeming — 
Not  luck  but  pluck! 

No   drifting   and   carousing, 
No    visionary   browsing. 
No  easy  berths  espousing, 
No  dozing,  prosing,  drowsing — 
Not  luck  but  pluck ! 

The  breezy  headlands  viewing, 
The   upward   slopes   pursuing, 
The  dullard's  naps  eschewing, 
Alert  and  up  and  doing — 
Not  luck  but  pluck ! 

No  loud  hurrah  and  bustle ; 
With   optimistic   hustle, 
With  brain  and  brawn  and  muscle. 
Give  time  and^tide  a  tussle — 
Not  luck  but  pluck ! 

No  wasting  days  in  tattle, 
No  chewing  cuds  with  cattle, 
No  skulking  in  the  battle, 
But  prompt  to  prove  your  mettle — 
Not  luck  but  pluck ! 

The  polestar  never  veering. 
These  seaside  breezes  cheering, 
The  brave  bark  onward  steering, 
Grit,  wit  and  persevering — 
Not  luck  but  pluck! 


Makemieland    Memorials  173 

Brave  Eastern  Shore  endeavor, 
No  waiting  on  the  weather, 
Intent  and  upward  ever, 
My  boy,  despondent  never — 
Not  luck  but  pluck ! 

Some  native  bard  to  love  me, 
Some  Cicero  to  move  me, 
By  these  blue  skies  above  thee, 
Up,  boy,  rise  and  prove  thee ! 
Not  luck  but  pluck ! 


MAKEMIE  TO  PIERCE  BRAY. 


It's  a  pity  that  we  know  so  little  of  the  original  Elders  in  the 
Makemie  Churches.  I  find  the  first  mention  of  Pierce  Bray  on 
the  Somerset  Records  in  1701 — the  purchase  of  his  farm.  He 
represented  Rehoboth  in  Presbytery  in  1720. 

Pierce   Bray,   Makemie's   and   Rehoboth's   friend, 
Official  such  as  Paul  ordained  and  signalized 
And  felt  their  loving  tears  upon  his  neck; 
I  gladden  with  you  in  your  domicile, 
Which  helps  to  plant  the  Ruling  Eldership 
Upon  this  shore  and  on  this  Continent. 
•  The  Elder's  home — yes,  build  it  stout  and  strong ! 
It  links  with  steel  the  pulpit  and  the  pews, 
The  preacher  and  his  flock,  and  both  to  God. 
It  throws  its  incense  through  the  Temple  Courts. 

I  see  the  Vineyard  budding, 

The  Vine  is  taking  root; 
I  smell  the  future  clusters,        , 

The  Calvinistic  fruit ; 
I  see  God's  system  anchored, 

The  Bible  flag  unfurled, 
The  Elder  standing  solidly 

Upon  this  Western  World! 


174  Makemieland    Memorials 

Pierce  Bray,  remember  when  old  Abraham 

Had  reached  the  Promised  Land  and  pitched  his  tent, 

He  pitched  God's  altar  too,  combining  both. 

When  came  the  Covenant  child,  methinks  the  first 

Bright  thing  he  noted  was  that  altar-blaze 

Near  by  the  cradle's  side.     The  Elder's  home, 

Now  pitched  upon  this  later  Canaan  land, 

Means  much !  the  Presbyterian  home, 

The  Presbyterial  home,  with  all  its  stars, 

Stands  large  for  God  and  man  and  all  the  world ! 

Amid  perennial  verdure, 

The  pleasing  seaside  scenes, 
Shall  not  the  Elder's  roof-tree 

Be  like  the  Evergreens — 
A  thing  of  life  and  beauty 

Whose  foliage  never  fades, 
Where  truth  unwithering  dwelleth 

Beneath  the  Covenant  shades? 

Here  on  the  watch-tower,  in  the  van,  Pierce  Bray, 
Placed  there  by  voters  in  this  Mother  Church, 
I  charge  you  to  be  blameless  as  God's  steward, 
Well  mated,  keeping  your  children  faithful, 
Not  quick  to  anger,  not  in  love  with  wine, 
No  bully,  no  slave  to  filthy  lucre, 
A  house  adorned  with  hospitality, 
A  lover  of  good  men,  and  sober,  just, 
Temperate,  holy,  and  holding  fast  the  Word; 
Thus  loyal  to  Rehoboth  and  to  God ! 

It  is  a  post  of  honor, 

The  Elder's  place  and  name, 
God's  workman  and  God's  watchman, 

Equipped  for  crown  and  palm; 
Safeguard  from  ultraism, 

From  hobbies  of  the  hour, 
From  priestly  domination 

And  lust  for  place  and  power! 


Makemieland    Memorials  175 

Pierce  Bray,  successors  to  your  altar-home, 
I  see  from  many  a  window  down  the  years 
Lights  shining  out !    From  Presbyterian  homes, 
From  Presbyterial  homes,  lights  shining  out ! 
From  all  these  placid  river-banks,  bright  lights ! 
From  all  these  groves  of  myrtle  and  of  pine, 
From  all  these  virgin  towns  and  villages. 
From  bayside  to  the  seaside,  lights  shining  out! 
From  all  these  family  graveyards  here  and  there, 
The  cheerfulness  of  Christian  tombs,  bright  lights ! 

My  friend,  look  up  and  onward ! 

A  noble  cause  invites ; 
By  every  wood  and  river 

Hang  out  the  signal-lights ! 
Stand  bravely  by  your  colors, 

And  place  them  on  the  heights ; 
On  every  hill  and  headland, 

Run  up  the  beacon-lights ! 

Pierce  Bray,  the  Teaching  Elders  come  and  go, 
The  Ruling  Elders  stay.     Makemie's  work 
Will  soon  be  done  and  he  must  fade  away. 
Makemie's  Churches  must  lean  prayerfully 
Upon  the  Eldership.    These  the  homeguard ; 
These  the  true  and  staunch  conservators. 
If  this  endeared  and  fair  Peninsula" 
Shall  stand  erect  for  Calvin  and  for  Christ, 
These  guards  must  lead.    I  leave  my  Bishopric 
To  good  Pierce  Bray  and  all  the  God-ordained. 

His  Elders  stood  by  Moses 

Along  the  desert  sand ; 
God  send  ideal  Elders 

To  all  Makemieland! 
May  cloud  and  fiery  pillar 

Attend  them  in  the  way, 
Still  following  in  the  footsteps 

Of  faithful  Elder  Bray! 


176  Makemieland    Memorials 

Pierce  Bray,  come  stand  with  me  by  Pocomoke. 
Yonder  the   Indian's   periangua   glides; 
Yonder  the  Negro  fishes  for  the  shad ; 
Here  two  white-men  think  and  weigh  and  hope. 
The  Pauline  System  must  be  made  secure 
And  fastened  deep  into  this  Western  soil — 
An  Evergreen  among  the  Evergreens. 
Then  build  the  Elder's  home  erect  and  fair 
Upon  the  Eastern  Shore  and  every  Shore. 
I  see  a  Shaft  some  day  on  Holden's  Creek ! 

The  present  and  the  future 

Are  linked  in  God's  Decrees, 
The   Apostolic   Elder 

Among  the  harmonies ; 
And  may  these  seaside  breezes 

The   seedtruths  widely  waft — 
An   Eldership   of   granite 

Like  that  Makemie  shaft! 


MOTHER'S    DAY. 


Winsome  Mothers  of  Rehoboth, 

We  salute  you   all   the  way 
From  the  old  Colonial  Mothers 

To  the  Mothers  of  to-day; 
Like  the  fragrance  of  the  myrtle, 

They  are  shedding  gladness  yet, 
Like  the  roses  and  the  lilies 

And  the  songs  of  Somerset. 

These  dear  Temple  Courts  have  seen  them. 

Fair  maternal  pioneers, 
Bowing  here  in  adoration 

Through  the  past  two  hundred  years ; 
Like  the  sunshine  on  the  meadows, 

Like  the  blossoms  by  the  brook, 
Warm   affections   deeply   flowing 

Like  the  tides  of  Pocomoke. 


Makemieland    Memorials  177 

Far  on  back  the  Indian  Mothers, 

In  the  ages  far  away, 
From  the  dusky  forest  wigwams 

Watched  their  little  ones  at  play; 
Babies  lashed  upon  their  shoulders, 

Young  papooses  by  their  side 
And  perhaps  the  sturdy  first-born 

Bringing  home  his  Indian  bride. 

Here  and  there  the  Quaker  Mothers, 

Garbed  in  plain  and  simple  dress, 
Rocked  their  meek-eyed  little  Mystics 

In  the  lonely  wilderness ; 
'Thee  and  Thou,"  those  Quaker  babies 

Never  once  a  pet-word  heard, 
And  for  them  no  cradle  music 

Save  the  song  of  woodland  bird. 

Oh  the  dear  old-fashioned  Mothers 

Kings   and   Everudens   and   Brays, 
Whites  and  Whittingtons  and  Beauchamps, 

Browns,  Galbraiths  and  Stevenses ; 
Revells,  Elzeys,  Dents  and  Drydens, 

Fentons,    Erkines,   Covingtons  ; 
Horseys,  Venables  and  Bostons, 

Winders,  Howards,  Stevensons. 

Many  of  the  names  have  vanished 

As  the  morning  mists  depart ; 
Mothers  once  with  fondled  children 

Pressed  upon  maternal  heart ; 
In  the  vernal  days  departed, 

Mother's  soul  and  Mother's  eyes — 
Here  they  raised  their  warm  petitions, 

Here  they  sung  their  lullabies. 

Ah  the  passing  of  the  Mothers 

Like  the  stars  at  break  of  day; 
Called  up  higher  from  our  cradles, 

Heaven  waiting  such  as  they; 


178  Makemieland    Memorials 

And  the  skies  are  bending  closer 
As  they  spread  their  wings  and  rise, 

There  beside  the  Crystal  River, 
Motherhood  in  Paradise ! 

Holds  this  world  a  sight  more  lovely, 

Has  our  earth  supremer  charms 
Than  a  beautiful  young  Mother 

With  her  first-born  in  her  arms? 
So  we  all  once  sweetly  nestled, 

To  our  Mother's  bosom  pressed, 
There  enveloped  in  caresses, 

Fondled  on  that  faithful  breast. 

So  the  Mothers,  tender  Mothers 

In  their  beauty  linger  yet, 
Gilding  all  the  towns  and  hamlets 

And  the  farms  of  Somerset; 
And  the  Churches  smile  and  bless  them, 

While  their  presence  lifts  and  cheers 
AH  the  pews  and  all  the  pulpits 

With  the  unction  of  their  prayers. 

And  the  darling  old  Grandmothers, 

Some  beneath  the  grassy  tombs, 
Some,  with  tenderness  unfading, 

Still  adorning  earthly  homes ; 
And  the  Mother-heart  immortal, 

Past  and  present  interwove, 
Idolizing  children's  children 

With  almost  a  double  love. 

Blessed  Mothers,  precious  Mothers, 

Richest  jewels  God  has  given, 
Guarding,  guiding  up  from  childhood, 

Pointing  winsomely  to  Heaven ; 
May  we  follow  in  their  footsteps, 

Treading  close  the  Heavenly  way, 
Worthy  of  the  angel  Mothers 

Of  the  past  and  of  to-day  I 


Makemieland    Memorials  179 

Old  Rehoboth  this  glad  morning 

Gathers  to  her  heart  of  hearts 
All  the   Mothers  and  Grandmothers 

Fondly  in  her  Temple  Courts ; 
Holy  spirits  long  ascended 

Seem  above  the  scene  to  brood, 
Still  invoking  benedictions 

On  Rehoboth's  Motherhood! 


MOSQUITO    ISMS. 


A  Blue  Monday  Recreation. 

Big  Mosquito  nipped  my  forehead,  scientific,  fair  and  square ; 
Only  pure  hallucination,  Boston  Priestess  would  declare ; 
Matter  never  in  existence  and  no  sort  of  evil  creeturs, 
No  nothing  but  mentality,  no  forehead  and  no  skeeters ; 
No  insect  hordes  infesting  with  their  venimous  intrusion — 
Ergo,  all  this  buzz  and  biting  but  phantasmal,  sheer  illusion ! 

Yet  I  make  my  affidavit — there's  the  lump  and  there's  the  bump ; 
Otherwise  I'm  an  inpostor  or  the  veriest  sort  of  gump ; 
But  I  stand  on  my  veracity — there's  that  irritating  patch, 
And  that  tantalizing  itching  that  I've  got  to  die  or  scratch; 
And  if  famous  Mrs.  Eddy  thinks  Mosquitodom  a  joke, 
We  would  love  to  have  her  test  it  on  the  classic  Pocomoke ! 

All  your  skeeter  bars  abolish,    'own  with  all  your  foolish  screens  ; 
Put  aside  your  smokes  and  smothers  and  forswear  your  human 

means ; 
For  all  that's  necessary  in  the  good  old  summer  time, 
Is  to  think  there  are  no  skeeters,  not  in  all  this  skeeter  clime ; 
Don't   you   try   to   brush  them   off,   don't  you   fidget,   don't   you 

twitch ; 
Don't  you  use  your  finger  nails  for  forsooth  it  doesn't  itch ! 


180  Makemieland    Memorials 

0  my  Muse,  just  wait  a  moment,  for  I've  got  to  scratch  awhile; 
How  I  wish  that  Mrs.  Eddy  that  sensation  could  beguile; 

I'm  convinced,  she  too,  would  scratch,  all  her  finger  nails  in  focus, 
Notwithstanding  all  the  glamour  of  her  Christian  hocuspocus ; 
For  it  itches,  itches,  itches,  with  all  sorts  of  aggravation, 
Yes,  in  spite  of  all  the  antics  of  occult  imagination ! 

On  and  on  from  Noah's  deluge  has  the  pesky  old  mosquito 
Been  bedeviling  human  skins,  yes,  and  their  religion  ditto ! 
If  the  skeeter  is  not  real,  if  the  skeeter  is  no  evil, 

1  may  soon  admit  the  premise  that  neither  is  there  any  devil ; 
Surely  both  of  them  exhibit  something  of  the  same  persistence— 
Both  are  mighty  hard  to  conjure  out  of  our  mundane  existence! 

Fact   is,   through   all   Mosquito  time,   I   am  just  about  as   ready 
To  believe  there  is  no  Boston,  that  there  is  no  Mrs.  Eddy; 
That  she,  too,  and  all  her  buzzing  are  only  dim  illusions, 
Though  many  splendid  people  share  her  spiritual  confusions ; 
But  while  there  still  are  wiggle-tails  and  victims  still  to  catch, 
I  just  must  believe  in  skeeters  and  ditto  in  Old  Scratch  ! 


VOYAGE  ON  THE  POCOMOKE;  WITH  HOME 
MISSION  MAGNATES. 

Gliding  down  the  placid  river, 
Sparkling  on   its   way  forever, 
With  the  Springtime  in  the  air, 
Tides  all  right  and  breezes  fair, 
Onward  launch  Alberta  floats, 
Queen  to-day  of  river  boats ; 
While  the  tints  of  bursting  buds 
Gladden  all  the  waking  woods, 
And  the  sunshine  like  a  dream 
Shimmers  on  the  pensive  stream ; 
So  our  hearts  with  gladness  glow, 
Fragrant  with  the  Long  Ago — 
Gliding  down  the  dreamy  river. 


Makemieland   Memorials  181 

Musings  of  John  Smith  awoke, 
First  white  man  on  Pocomoke, 
Ready  hand  to  write  or  fight, 
Old  Virginia's  knightliest  knight ; 
Venturous  keel  on  mapless  waves, 
Welcomed   by   the    Indian   braves, 
Days   romantic,   distant  date, 
Far,   far  back  in   Sixteen-Eight. 
Then  in  Sixteen-Thirty-five, 
Bitter  foemen  meet  and  strive, 
Clayborne   and   Lord-  Baltimore 
Dye  the  little  stream  with  gore, 
When  the  Pinnace  Longtail  met 
St.  Helen  and  St.  Margaret; 
Indians  marvel  at  the   sight, 
America's  first  naval  fight. 
Thus  we  dream  as  on  we  go, 
Of  the  hazy  Long  Ago — 
Gliding  down  the  classic  river. 

So  float  on  our  happy  group 
Thinking  of   Makemie's   sloop, 
Sloop  Tabitha  as  she  swings 
Round  the  curves  with  seagull  wings, 
Flying  in  that  early  day 
On  her  Missionary  way, 
Sowing  in  the  glad  sunbeams 
Gospel  seed  along  these  streams, 
Settling  'mid  the  vistas   wild 
Young  Rehoboth  his  first  child — 
She  the.  Mother  yet  to  be 
Of  a  boundless  progeny 
Like  the  sands  by  yonder  sea ; 
Thus  the  Past  its  sweets  exhaled, 
Sailing  where  Makemie  sailed — 
Gliding  down  the  ancient  river. 

Yonder  the  old  Temple  looms, 
There  amid  the  mouldering  tombs — 
Modest,   gracious   Luminary, 
Venerable  old  Sanctuary ! 


182  Makemieland    Memorials 

Silently  we  pass  the  door, 
Breathe  the  halms  of  days  of  yore, 
Treading  where  the  Fathers  trod. 
Thinking  of  our  Fathers'  God, 
There  we  sung  and  there  we  prayed 
Where  our  Creed  was  first  displayed ; 
It  was  well,  yes  it  was  well 
There  upon  that  sacred  hill 
That  our  Mission  Chief  should  stand 
And  lead  our  prayers  for  all  the  land, 
Where  to  all  this  Western  world 
The   Mission   flag   was   first   unfurled. 
God  bless   our  Thompson  and  his  wife, 
A  noble  and  illustrious  life. 
Henceforth   upon   our  honored   Guest 
Rehoboth's  benedictions  rest ! 
On  him   Makemie's   mantle   fall, 
Heroic  son  of  Donegal ! 
Like  sloop  Tabitha  at  full  tide, 
May  C.  L.  Thompson  and  his  bride, 
Encounter  storm  and  quicksand  never — 
Gliding  down  life's   mystic  river ! 

'Twas  well  ere  yet  our  Guests  should  leave 
That  they  should  stand  by  Stevens'  grave, 
And  think  of  that  long  buried  hand 
Which  brought  our  Founder  to  this  land; 
Big-hearted  writer  of  the  Call 
Which  won  the  seer  of  Donegal. 
Old  Cellar  and  the  old  flat  Tomb, 
Farm  named  Rehoboth,  There  is  Room, 
First  patented  to  bloom  and  live, 
Far  back  in   Sixteen-Sixty-five; 
Room  for  all  and  worship  free, 
Whoever  should  the  exile  be; 
Room,  yes  room;  all  sects  could  come 
And  preach  beside  his  home  and  tomb. 
Here  where  our  Founder  reached  this  land, 
'Twas  well  our  Mission  Chief  should  stand, 
And  look  abroad  and  gaze  afar 
And  gather  inspiration  here ; 


Makemieland    Memorials  183 

Where  first  the  Mission  Clarion  spoke 
Along  the  listening  Pocomoke, 
To  go  on  ringing — on  forever — 
The  great  Evangelistic  river ! 

I 
Ho,  ye  skeptics,  ye  should  see 

The  Mission   Chief's  agility, 

Miraculous  facility, 

August  adaptibility, 

And  wonderful  humility; 

And  how  this  man  of  eloquence 

Could  circumvent  that  mean  barbed  fence ; 

Or  rather  how  His  Eminence 

Just  underwent  that  barbarous  fence, 

How  His  Reverence  looked  around, 

Threw  himself  upon  the  ground, 

Rolled  and  rolled,  our  D  D  guide, 

Till  out  upon  the  other  side, 

Never  was  there  antic  droller, 

This  ne-plus-uLtra  Patent  Roller! 

Did  Stevens  ever  dream  of  old, 

Had  any  Prophet  e'er  foretold, 

How  some  great-big  Ecclesiastic 

Could  perpetuate   such   deed   fantastic, 

And  by  such  occult  ravishments 

Outwit  that   devilish  old  fence ! 

It  ill  besets  the  Mission  Cause, 

If   some   huge   barrier   interpose, 

Then  I'm  sure  we  needn't  wonder 

If  our  Thompson  just  rolls  under, 

And  tricks  old  Satan  far  and  wide 

And  looms  upon  the  other  side — 

Gliding  up   the   favoring  river ! 

Climax  coming,  heat  the  pot ; 
Oysters   steaming  piping-hot ! 
So  the  launch  Alberta  flies, 
'Mid  the  fumes  of  Paradise; 
Sun   in   the   Meridian, 
Palates   Presbyterian ; 


j  84  Makemieland    Memorials 

Preacher's  wife  and  preacher's  daughter 
Hungry  as  two  shads  in  water; 
Carey,  Polk  and  both  the  Preachers, 
Going  for  those  bivalve  creatures; 
Appetites  as  orthodox 
As  that  of  Calvin  or  John  Knox ! 
Great  Home  Mission  Enterprise 
And  cooking  oysters  harmonize — 
Glad  "to  go  on  thus  forever, 
Feasting  on  the  happy  river ! 

Moral :    If  by  any  chance 

You  may  fail  to  jump  the  fence; 

If  in  reaching  yonder  goal, 

Barbs  may  tear  your  pants  or  soul, 

Then  outwit  Old  Nick,  by  thunder, 

Humbly  bow  and  just  roll  under! 

Men  revolving  with  the  times 

Like  the  rumble  of  my  rhymes, 

Prompt  to  plan  and  prompt  to  act, 

Like  our  Thompson's  barbed-wire  tact, 

Soon  may  see  the  dangers  passed 

And  luxuriate  at  last ; 

Humble  now  but  blessed  forever, 

Feasting  by  the  Crystal  River ! 


GRAND  EPIC— REDEMPTION  OF  LOVER'S  LANE. 


Canto  I. — Cupid  and  the  Nose. 

And  what  should  Lover's  Lane  be? 

A  place  of  pleasing  things, 
A  nesting  nook  for  fairies 

And  flash  of  Cupid's  wings ; 
A  dream  of  grace  and  beauty, 

Of  birds  and  buzzing  bees, 
The  spell  of  sylvan  splendors 

And  green-fringed  cypresses. 


Makemieland    Memorials  185 

We  took  a  stroll  at  sunset, 

The  azure  in  the  sky ; 
The  hour  for  genial  fancies 

And  sweet  expectancy; 
For  what  should  Lover's  Lane  be? 

A  spot  for  rarest  dreams, 
Romantic  and  poetic, 

And  charm  of  woodland  streams. 

We  took  a  stroll  at  sunset, 

My  own  best  girl  and  I — 
What    horrid    nightmare    seizes? 

What   stench   bombards   the   sky? 
Great  piles  of  stuff  outrageous, 

Discarded    underclo's — 
My   lass   is   red   with   blushes — 

Her  fingers  grip  her  nose ! 

All   sorts  of  hideous   rubbish, 

Old   shoes   and   ladies'    rats, 
Tin  cans  and  broken  dishes 

And  corpses  of  dead  cats ; 
A  charnel-house  of  squalor, 

So  vile  that  in  dismay 
The  poor,  sick  turkey  buzzards 

Disgusted   turn  away! 

Outside  the  holy  City 

The  Jewish  filth  was  hid ; 
They  called  the  place  Gehenna — 

Don't   wonder  that  they  did ; 
For  we  parade  our  dump-heaps 

Repulsive  to  the  view, 
And   Pocomoke's  proud  city 

Has  her  Gehenna  too ! 

And    Lover's   Lane   they   call   it, 

A   sacrilege   of  names, 
Now  fit   for  nothing,   nothing, 

Except   Gehenna's   flames ; 


j  86  Makemieland    Memorials 

Arouse,  ye  Civic  Leaguers, 

Ye  harbingers   of  taste,' 
Clean  out  this  Augean  Stable, 

Disgracing  and   disgraced! 

It  stands,   a   foul   dishonor, 

A   reeking  skeleton, 
Defacing  our  fine  causeway, 

Fairest  entrance  to  the  town; 
The  beautiful  implores  you — 

Those   flowering   shrubs   and   trees, 
Magnolia  blooms  and  maples, 

And  grand  old  cypresses  ! 

I   can't  conceive   the  courtin' 

That's  possible  out  there — 
Your  sweetheart  nauseated 

And   nostrils   in   despair! 
For  while  you  sware  your  sweetest 

In  poetry  or  prose, 
What   on   earth   can    lassie   do 

But  just  to  hold  her  nose! 

Canto  II. — Popping  Catastrophes. 

Once  upon  a  time  Philander, 

Bent  on   matrimonial  talk, 
Intercepted  fair  Amander 

And  they   started  for  a  walk ; 
Tempest  raging  in  his  bosom, 

Cyclone  whirling  in  his  brain, 
And    the    dogwood    was    in   blossom 

And   they  Lroke   for  Lover's  Lane. 

Then  the  spoony  young  Philander 

Had  his  fine  strategic  plan 
Just  exactly  how  to  land  her. 

By  all  skill  and  grit  of  man  ; 
Romance   royal   was   a-booming, 

Ardent  love  enthused  the  twain — 
All  the  vernal  splendors  blooming 

In  the  realms  of  Lover's  Lane. 


Makemieland    Memorials  187 

Now  the  amourous  Philander 

Had  enlisted  all  his  nerve, 
While  the  happy  pair  meander 

Round  about   the  beauteous  curve; 
"Wilt  thou,  darling  sweet  Amander, 

Be  my  own  betrothed  to-day?" 
Sprang   the    maid,    ere    he    could    hinder, 

Full  ten  cubits  clear  away ! 

Lo,  a  mass  of  stuff  amorphous, 

Effervescent  near  their  track, 
And,  as  rancid  as  a  porpoise; 

Diabolic  bric-a-brac; 
Had  she  seen  some  river  varmint? 

Had  some  anaconda  done  it? 
No — oh  no —  some  inner  garment, 

With  Amander's   name  upon  it ! 

In  due  time  chagrined  Philander 

Pacifies  her  as  they  wend 
And  perform  a  gerrymander 

Round   about    another   bend ; 
"Wilt  thou  be  my  own,  my  dearest?" 

Thus  he  pops  it  over  again — 
"Here  amid  the  brightest,  fairest 

Paradise  of  Lover's  Lane?" 

Lo,  another  pile  of  horrors 

And   demoniac  bric-a-brac, 
And    our   poor    Philander's    sorrows 

Double  full  upon  his  track; 
She  had  seen  her  corset  cover 

Festering  there  in  sheer  decay — 
Suddenly  she  toppled  over, 

Gasped  and  fainted  dead  away! 

Then  the  microbes   see  their  chances, 

Rise  and   swarm   about  the  two; 
Old  Bacillus  spawns  and  dances 

Up  and   down  the   Avenue; 


Makkmieland    Memorials 

Thick  as  fog  the  rank  contageon 

Round  and   round  the  couple   squirms, 

And  it  fills  the  two's  religion 
All  chock-full  of  devil  germs ! 

Needn't  wonder  if  Philander 

Now  explodes  some  cuss  words  dire, 
Wishing  those  who  aid  and  pander 

Were  upon  this  funeral  pyre ; 
Cremating   all    the    perpetrators 

With  these  eye-sores  of  creation, 
Scorching  every  soul  that  caters 

To  this  vile  abomination ! 

Needn't  marvel   if  the  maiden 

With  the  fever  in  each  vein, 
With  the  typhoid  microbes  laden, 

Born    and   bred   in   Lover's   Lane, 
Was  disgusted  with  the  dump  heaps, 

Sickened  with  the  day's  fatigue, 
Burning  all   the  home-made   rubbish — 

Joins  full  tilt  the  Civic  League ! 

Then  our  Lover's  Lane  beguiling, 

Clothes  itself  in  rich  array, 
Every  fine  old  cypress   smiling 

On  the  saints  who  pass  that  way ; 
New-born  taste,   refreshed,   enlightened 

Every  gratified  by  by-stander, 
And  the   spell  of  beauty  brightens 

Fair  Amander  and  Philander ! 

Bravo !  all  the  City  Fathers, 

Proudly  faithful  to  their  trust — 
Peace  of  mind  about  them  gathers 

And  the  slumbers  of  the  just; 
Civic  dreams  embalmed  in  duty, 

Lover's  Lane  henceforth  their  pride, 
Meditations  gemmed   with  beauty — 

And  the  Town  electrified ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  189 

Canto  III. — Microbes  in  Council. 

Great   excitement   through  their   dens — 

The  microbes  in  histeria, 
A  flutteration  far  and  wide — 

Bacilli  and  bacteria ; 
For  they'd  heard  the  Civic  League 

Was  after   Civic  Evils, 
Intent  to  break  the  fearful  reign 

Of  all  these  busy  devils. 

And  so  the  Doctor's  mystic  bugs, 

Hygeia's  modern  hobbies, 
Had    called   a    hasty    Conference 

Of  all  these  little' boobies; 
Beneath  a  reeking  garbage  heap, 

They  come  with  hurried  greeting, 
From  every  backyard  in  the  burg — 

A  great  microbe  mass-meeting. 

And  Arch-Bacterius  took  the  Chair, 

And  shook  his  little  gavel. 
The  boss-microbe  of  Lover's  Lane, 

The   leading   pesky   devil ; 
"We  hear  it  told,"  the  Chairman  said, 

"That  awful  Mrs.   Emma 
Is  forcing  all  our  frisky  tribes 

Into  a  dire  dilemma. 

"Just  get  these  women   started  out 

On  any  such  intention, 
They're  mighty  apt  in  time  to  beat 

A  Woman's-Rights   Convention, 
If  once  their  pretty  heads  are  set 

To  make  this  thing  effective, 
In  tracing  us  tKey  will  excel 

A   Pinkerton   detective." 

Then  Arch-Bacillus  took  the  floor, 

In  pest-hole  generated, 
And  none  more  stealthy  or  more  sly, 


190  Makemieland    Memorials 

And  thus  the  bug  orated : 
"Worse  still;  our  case  is  desperate; 

Our  counsels  must  not  tarry; 
They've  made  their  chief  microbic  scout 

Illustrious  Mrs.  Carrie. 

"So  long  and  strong  she's  ruled  the  ranch, 

And  bossed  her  hen-pecked  Billy, 
That  now  she  means  to  have  her  way, 

And  boss   us  poor  bacilli; 
I   have  a  plan   I   think   will   work 

And  sure  protection  get  us;. 
We'll  turn  ourselves  to  polliwogs 

And  then  she'll  feed  and  pet  us ! 

"Enthroned  as  tadpoles  in  her  tank, 

The  conquest  will  be  easy; 
We'll  soon  infect  her  victim  Bill, 

And  Allen  and  Louisy; 
And  then  we'll  hold  an  honored  place 

In  Pocomoky  City, 
And  bid  defiance  out  and  out 

To    that    old    Germ-Committee." 

Another  little  magnate  said — 

"Why    should   this    thing   be   bruited? 
"Why  should  our  honorable  guild 

Be  scorned  and  persecuted? 
The  Doctors  have  to  have  their  fads, 

Some  theoretic  pother; 
Why  not  we  microbes  fill  the  bill, 

As  well  as  any  other !" 

Another  little  tricky  scamp 

His  cunning  ventilated: 
"Society,  with  microbes  gone, 

Would  soon  be  decimated; 
For  how  about  the  microbes,  sir, 

That   get   into   religion 
And  permeate  the  piety 

Within  the  dancing  region ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  191 

"And  how  about  the  microbes,  too, 

Around  the  good  card-tables, 
Where  Christians  meet  to  worship   God 

Amid  the  social  Babels? 
And  how  about  the  microbes   fair, 

Theatre  saints  infesting? 
Also  the  moving-picture   shows 

Church-services  contesting? 

"For  there  are  moral  microbes,  sir, 

And  microbes  irreligious, 
And  they  all  have  their  dump-heaps,  too, 

And  rubbish  piles  pernicious; 
And  our  old  Arch-Bacterius, 

And  our  Arch-Bacillus 
Will  give  you  all  a  tussle  yet 

Before  you  folks  can  kill  us !" 

And  thus  they  wiggled  on  and  on, 

Abusing  those  good  women, 
And  laid  their  plans  for  more  campaigns, 

Each  dirty  little  demon ; 
They  then  adjourned  with  loud  acclaim — 

"Old  Lover's  Lane  forever !" 
Intent  to  breed  new  fever  germs 

Down  by  the  classic  river. 

With  all  their  vast  omnipotence 

By  big  Physicians  stated, 
And  all  the  ills  beneath  the  sun 

By  microbes  propagated, 
We    don't   believe,    we    won't    believe 

That  beautiful  Aquarium 
Will  ever  by  their  threats  become 

A  bad  old  Microbarium ! 

Canto  IV. — Grand  Finale. 

Consternation  in  Microbia, 

Denizens  in  awful  plight, 
Brainstorms  dire  and  hydrophobia, 

Whole  phalanxes  in  full  flight ; 


192  Makemieland    Memorials 

Doctors  and  apothecaries 
t  Losing  now  their  avocation, 

Women,  angels  and  the  fairies 
Joined  in  holy  jubilation! 


DE    WEDDIN'. 


De  weddin'  been  appinted, 

De  weddin'  must  go  on — 
De  sweetest  little  Lady 

In  all  dis  Charleston  town; 
In  dese  ole  arms  I'd  hugged  her 

Wid  many  a  risin'  sun, 

Miss  May  a  Hebbenly  angel 

If  ebber  dere  was  one ! 

Oh  me,  my  heart  is*"breakin\ 

I  wish  I'd  died  befo' ; 
In  all  dis  world  ob  weepin', 
I'll  see  her  likes  no  mo' ! 

De  guns  in  Charleston  harbor 

Broke  loose  like  imps  ob  hell ; 
De  valleys  ancT  de  BilTsldes 

Blaze  wid  de  shot  and  shell ; 
And  ebbery  thing  was  quakin' 

As  ef  'twas  Judgment  Day; 
Dere  by  de  bridegroom  smilin' 

Stood  little  Lady  May. 

Oh  me,  my  heart  is  breakin', 
I  wish  I'd  died  befo' ; 

In  all  dis  world  ob  weepin', 
I'll  see  her  likes  no  mo' ! 

De  mean  ole  war  was  ragin', 
De  thunders  louder  grow ; 

Dat  darlin'  little  Lady, 

She  nebber  seemed  to  know ; 

De  calm"  was  on  her  forehead 
De  lilies  in  her  hair; 

De  bridegroom  made  de  promise, 
De  preacher  turned  to  her. 


Makemieland    Memorials  193 

Oh  me,  my  heart  is  breakin', 

I  wish  I'd  died  befo'; 
In  all  dis  world  ob  weepin', 

I'll  see  her  likes  no  mo' ! 

De  bridegroom  made  de  promise, 

De  preacher  turned  to  her; 
She  quivered,  gasped,  he  caught  her; 

De  gallant  Cavalier ; 
De  ball  had  pierced  her  bosom; 

She  said,  "Good  man,  go  on;" 
"Till  death?"    "I  will,"  she  whispered, 

And  den  my  chile  was  gone ! 

Oh  me,  my  heart  is  breakin', 

I  wish  I'd  died  befo'; 
In  all  dis  world  ob  weepin', 

I'll  see  her  likes  no  mo' ! 

Black  Mammy's  heart  is  breakin', 

My  precious  chile  is  dead; 
I  wish  the  fightin'   devils 

Had  murdered  me  instead; 
She  lubbed  her  ole  Black  Mammy, 

I  lubbed  my  angel  May; 
For  cullud  folks  and  white  folks, 

It  was  a  sad  ole  day ! 

Oh  me,  my  heart  is  breakin', 

I  wish  I'd  died  befo'; 
In  all  dis  world  ob  weepin', 

I'll  see  her  likes  no  mo' ! 


SHAD ! ! 


Pocomoke  Shad — what  beauties,  what  beauties ! 

Shimmering  in  silver  like  moonlight  on  snow ; 
Never  a  bride  in  splendor  excelled  her — 

Bride  of  the  river  with  jewels  of  roe; 
Diamonds  of  roe,  all  fresh  from  the  floods, 
Exquisite  viands  and  fit  for  the  Gods ! 


194  Makemieland    Memorials 

Pocomoke  boats  afloat  on  the  waters, 

Man  with  the  paddle  and  man  with  the  net; 

Hiddekel,  Pison,  Euphrates  and  Gibon 

In   these   curves   and   these   stretches   fair   rivals   have  met; 

Banks  all  in  blossom  and  Nature  all  glad, 

Green  of  the  Tropics  and  nests  of  the  shad. 

Thrills  in   the  net  and  the  fisherman   feels  it, 

Thrills  in  the  boat  and  thrills  in  the  air; 
Dash  and  a  jerk  and  a  swirl  in  the  waters, 

Floods  with  a  sunburst  and  the  trophy  is  there ! 
Captors  ecstatic  and  jolly  and  proud — 
Piece  of  a  rainbow  fresh  from  the  cloud! 

Mackerel  are  good  and  trout  of  the  mountain, 

Blue  fish  are  fine  and  herring  are  prime ; 
White  fish  of  the  lakes  and  the  great  Western  tarpon — 

Give  me  my  Pocomoke  shad  every  time ; 
How  the  rapt  Muses  of  Greece  would  soar, 
Had  they  known  of  these  dainties  of  the  Eastern  Shore ! 

Beautiful  shad,  witlh  her  roe-rolls  rounded, 

Hand  her  to  one  of  the  old  darkie  cooks — 
Better  than  all  the  chefs  in  creation, 

Finer  than  all  that  is  told  in  the  books ; 
Nectar  was  fair  and  ambrosia  not  bad — 
Jupiter   Tonans   knew   nothing  of  shad ! 


OLYMPUS  AND  EDEN. 

When  youthful  Eastern  Shore  like  Venus  rose, 
All  fresh  and  fair  and  fragrant  from  the  waves, 
Jove  hailed  this  more  than  Cytherean  Queen, 
And  sent  Swift-Footed  Mercury  to  the  Coast 
To  call  the  Ocean-born,  the  Beautiful, 
To  take  her  place  among  the  Goddesses 
And  sit  beside  him  on  Olympian  heights, 
The  Feast  was  on,  Apollo  held  his  lyre, 
The  nectar  and  ambrosia  filled  the  air, 
The  graces  came  in  groups,  the  Muses  sang: — 


Makemieland    Memorials  195 

"Amid  the  seaboard  breezes, 

Along  the  mystic  strand. 
The  realms  of  dim  Atlantic 

Far  in  the  Western  Land, 
Where  Sol  from  boundless  surges 

Illuminates  the  morn, 
There  in  the  Land  of  Fables 

Another  Queen  is  born  !"' 

All  Greece  was  waiting  for  new  burst  of  song; 
Apollo  and  the  Sacred  Nine  had  sent 
Poetic  dreams  to  all  the  dreaming  Trards, 
To  Homer,  Sappho  and  Theocritus 
And  all  the  band,  to  have  their  harps  in  tune. 
But  yonder  comes  the  Fleet-Winged  all  alone 
And  this  strange  message  bears — "I  saw  her  there, 
Just  from  the  foam,  in  beauty,  vision  rare — 
The  Eastern  Shore,  the  virgin  seaside  maid 
And  bashfully  these  gentle  words  she  sendj : — 

"  T   cannot  leave  my  pine-woods, 

My  shady  holly  groves, 
My  bowers  of  blooming  laurel, 

My  myrtle  and  my  coves ; 
To  every  God  and  Goddess 

I  waft  a  sister's  kiss, 
But  you,   O  fair  Olympus, 

Had  never  clime  like  this !'  " 

At  first  Jove  frowned  and  grasped  his  thunderbolt, 
Then  laid  it  down,  a  smile  upon  his  face. 
'Til  humor  this  Divinity,"  he  said; 
"Now  for  an  .age  or  two  I've  had  no  Pet; 
You  ancient  Gods  and  Goddesses  grow  stale; 
All  this  is  new,  unique ;  thrones  tempt  her  not ; 
She  thinks  her  woods  and  streams  Elysium! 
So.  wreathe  her  brow  with  her  own  Evergreens ; 
Ye  Graces,  weave  four  crowns — each  season  one !" 
And  then  the  Muses  with  new  ardor  sang: — 


196  Makemieland    Memorials 

"The  Thunderer  is  smiling ! 

This  new-crowned  Favorite 
May  nestle  in  her   forests 

Like  woodland  violet ; 
The  Thunderer  is  smiling ! 

He  melts  beneath  her  charms 
And  softens  into  zephyrs 

Her  loudest  thunder-storms !" 

The  Graces  hastened  lithely  to  their  task: 
For  Springtime  diadem,  where  Spring  birds  sing, 
The  robin,  bluebird  and  the  oriole; 
Where  merry  frogs  attune  their  choruses; 
Where  shad  and  herring  fatten  for  the  feast ; 
Where  laughing  school-girls,  happy  as  the  wrens, 
Skip  on  their  way  like  fairies  'neath  the  trees ; 
There  Jove's  fair  Artists  pluck  the  laurel  branch, 
Now  green  and  pink  with  variegated  bloom, 
And  weave  them  deftly  for  the  Verual  Crown. 

They  crown  her,  yes  they  crown  her, 

The  blushing  Eastern  Shore, 
And  never  richer  chaplet 

Fair  Goddess  ever  more ; 
The  life  is  in  her  pulses, 

The  tints  are  in  hei  cheek. 
From  pensive  Synapuxent 

To  glistening  Chesapeake ! 

Now  Summer's  come  and  Jove  the  signal  gives, 
And  prompt  the  Graces  hurry  to  the  pines, 
Romantic,   genial,    contemplative   pines. 
Bordered  by  them,  the  waving  wheat  and  corn ; 
Bordered  by  them,  the  orchards  red  with  fruits ; 
Bordered  by  them,  strawberries  and  tomatoes; 
Bordered  by  them,  potatoes  and  huckleberries; 
And  there  the  Graces  gather  for  her  brow 
The  fringe-like  needles,  rarest  diadem. 


Makemieland    Memorials  197 

They  crown  her,  fondly  crown  her, 

The  Land  of  balmy  Pine, 
The  Land  of  milk  and  honey, 

Of  Thyme  and  Eglantine ; 
The  Land  of  Noble  Fathers, 

And  ozone  on  the  air ; 
The  Land  of  model  Mothers 

And  courtships  everywhere ! 

Cool  Autumn's  here  and  Jove  has  not  forgot ; 
The  Harvest  Home  is  sung  and  barns  are  full, 
The  hearts  are  glad  and  oysters  on  the  dish, 
And  canvas-backs  and  diamond-backs  all  ripe ; 
'Tis  one  great,  wholesouled  Thanksgiving  Day; 
And  eating  is  an  art  divine  down  there, 
And  kitchens  there  are  royal  Palaces 
And  tables  beat  Olympas  out  of  sight. 
Now  Graces  bring  the  myrtle,  full  of  love, 
And  twine  its  berries  in,  and  rich  perfumes. 

They  crown  her,  thus  they  crown  her, 

And  never   Grecian   verse 
Has  sung  and  celebrated 

Such  marriages  as  hers. 
The  welding  of  close  neighbors, 

The  old  Colonial  blood, 
The  pride  of  Eastern  Shoremen 

In  mystic  brotherhood ! 

And  now  mild  Winter  came  and  brought  its  pause — 

With  books  and  poesy  and  song  and  home. 

Wide  looms  the  splendor  of  the  Evergreens; 

At  Christmastide  look  through  your  windows  forth 

And  see  no  blight  or  gloom  on  all  the  world ! 

Stroll  through  the  woods — 'twill  rival  Summertime! 

Sit  by  warm  stoves  and  watch  the  dazzling  snow 

Gleam  white  on  verdant  boughs.    The  Graces  pluck 

The  prize  of  holly  flamed  with  red 

And  weave  glad  Winter's  bright  unwithering  crown. 


198  Makemieland    Memorials 

We  hear  the  Muses  singing : — 

"Stand  up,  thou  peerless  Queen; 
Array  the  Ocean  Goddess 

In  everliving  green ; 
Let  all  her  lovers  love  her, 

Let  all  her  children  praise — 
The  winsome  Land  of  Evergreens, 

The  Sweetheart  of  the  Bays !" 


MAKEMIE  ON  HIS  EAR! 

Were  our  brave  Makemie  living,  I  am  sure  there'd  be  a  breeze, 
And  a  sound  of  something  stirring  in  the  live  mulberry  trees, 
And  he'd  thunder  through  these  counties — "Up  and  at  it !  go  to 

work ! 
Get  a  move  and  hustle  on  you — Presbyterians  must'nt  shirk ! 

"Here  your  Ship  of  Zion  started,  borne  along  with  favoring  gales, 
With  the  sunlight  on  her  pennons,  with  the  coast-winds  in  her 

sails; 
And  most  gallantly  she  floated  and  she  ever  onward  bore, 
For  the  God  of  Knox  had  brought  her  to  the  good  old  Eastern 

Shore. 
"What's  the  matter  with  the  pilots  and  the  mariners  on  board? 
What's  the  matter  with  your  Bibles  and  the  altars  of  the  Lord? 
Sure,   somebody's  been  unwary  and  somebody's  to  be  blamed — 
Methodism  has  outstripped  you  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed! 

"What's  the  trouble  up  at  Berlin — Buckingham  of  virgin  gold 
On  'the  road  along  the  seaside'  in  the  shining  days  of  old; 
Where  your  Tennent  and  your  Rankin  ploughed  and  sowed  his- 
toric ground, 
Why  the  languor  and  the  slumber  in  the  vineyards  all  around? 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  workmen  in  my  good  Wicomico — 
Presbyterians  hardly  stronger  than  a  hundred  years  ago ; 
Only  Church  in  all  that  region  and  the  ancient  ardor  fled, 
Not  an  outpost  in  the  county  and  my  Rockavvalkin  dead ! 


Makemieland    Memorials  199 

"What's  the  matter,  ye  Snow-Hillers;  where's  the  fervor  of  your 

youth — 
With    your    boast    of    your    Makemie    and    Memorial    Church 

forsooth ! 
Where's  the  Adam  Spence  devotion  and  the  olden  chivalry? 
Zeal  and  vim  and  love  and  duty — these  alone  prove  pedigree! 

"What's  the  matter  with  Pitts  Creek?  where  the  fragrance,  where 

the  bloom. 
In  the  Church  of  Anne  Makemie  and  of  Sam  McMaster's  home? 
Two  battalions,  town  and  country,  well  equipped  in  everything, 
And  you  ought  to  double-team  it  in  the  service  of  the  King ! 

"What's  the  matter  with  Monokin,  once  a  green  and  fruitful  tree, 
Foliage  punctured  by  a  microbe  called  respectability; 
Where's  the  old  aggressive  get-up?  where's  the  Calvinistic  pride? 
Where  the  missions?  where  the  chapels  in  the  "Necks"  on  every 
side? 

"What's  the  matter  at  Rehoboth?  eldest  daughter  of  the  fold; 
Pastor  crazy  on  Makemie,  cranky  on  the  days  of  old ; 
Why  the  drooping  and  the  mildew?  where  I  came  to  regions  wild, 
Where  I  lived  and  loved  and  labored  for  my  first  and  favorite 
child! 

"These  the  fields  and  these  the  Churches  which  erect  and  brave 

should  stand, 
Bulwarks  strong,  enthusiastic,  and  ensamples  to  the  land; 
Yet  I  see  no  bold  advances,  no  new  missions  ploughed  and  sown, 
But  instead  with  banners  trailing  just  content  to  hold  your  own! 

"Yonder  where  the  sheen  and  splendor  broad  above  the  Chesa- 
peake, 

Where  the  dreams  are  ebbing,  flowing,  like  the  tides  of  Holden's 
Creek, 

There  you've  built  enduring  granite  to  perpetuate  my  fame, 

But  I  tell  of  grander  chaplets  you  may  wreathe  about  my  name ! 

"Build  your  Churches  into  beauty,  build  me  love  and  build  me 

zeal, 
Build  the  spirit  of  the   fathers  where  you  work  and  where  you 

kneel ; 


200  Makemieland    Memorials 

Build  me  Missionary  chapels — push  and  pluck  and  brave  intent; 
Thus  you  best  will  crown  Makemie,  these  his  noblest  Monument ! 

"Up  and  press   the   Gospel  conquests,   and  the  goals  your  sires 

foresaw ; 
Presbyterians  should  have  captured  this  entire  Peninsula ! 
Calvin  cannot  stand   for  weaklings ;  wake  and  face  the  waiting 

dawn; 
Buckle  on  Makemie's  armor — sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon!" 


IN  THE  MIRROR. 
Sunday  Morn,  Aug.  15th,  1910. 

Silently  the  pensive  river 

Goes  on  dreaming  all  the  way, 
Not  a  ripple  on  its  bosom, 

Holy  calm  of  Sabbath  Day ; 
Onward  to  the  Ancient  Temple, 

Like  the  seabirds  on  we  glide, 
Watching  in  the  m'irror'd  waters 

Shadows  in  the  tide. 

And  the  green  primeval  forests 

With  their  grand  memorial  trees, 
Many   a   glossy-leaved   magnoli.i 

And  the  pines  and  cypresses, 
Fringed  along  the  vine-clad  borders 

By  the  quiet  riverside, 
Drop  their  photographs  phantasmal, 

Shadows  in  the  tide. 

And  as   there  we  float  among  them, 

Breathing  fancies  rare  and  fair, 
Other  shadows  seem  to  gather 

And  to  gently  settle  there, 
Men  and  deeds  of  other  Summers, 

Those  who  lived  and  wrought  and  died, 
Leaving  on  life's  rapid  currents 

Shadows  in  the  tide. 


Makemieland    Memorials  201 

And  they  brought  across  the  billows 

Hand  of  hero,   heart  of  oak, 
And  they  planted  seeds  of  freedom 

On  historic  Pocomoke ; 
Rights  of  conscience,  praise  unfettered, 

God  alone  to  rule  and  guide, 
Vast   hereditary  glories. 

Shadows  in  the  tide. 

See  that  patch  of  floral  splendors, 

White  and  pink  and  golden  hue, 
Gardens  of  the  river  Naiads 

Sparkling  in  their  beads  of  dew; 
And,  beneath  them,  chaste  reflections, 

Purified  and  glorified, 
Blossoming  in  new  resplendence, 

Shadows  in  the  tide. 

Other  gardens  rise  before  us, 

Blooms  perennially  to  last, 
Matrons,  maids  and  rosy  lassies, 

Smiling  from  the  twilight  past ; 
Once  they  graced  the  hills  and  valleys, 

Leaving  spells  that  still  abide, 
And  great  argosies  of  beauty, 

Shadows  in  the  tide. 

Yonder  stands  a  thoughtful  mansion, 

Telling  of  Colonial  days, 
Venerable  with  plaintive  legends, 

Resting  in  its  morning  haze ; 
And  a  graveyard  nestles  by  it, 

Dead  and  living  side  by  side, 
Home  and  tombstones  and  traditions — 

Shadows  in  the  tide. 

And  to  us  there  come  the  portraits, 

Many  a  circle,  many  a  home, 
Relics  of  the  times   romantic, 

Many  a  smile  and  many  a  bloom ; 


202  MAKEMIELAND     MEMORIALS 

And  the  graveyards — Oh  so  near  it — 
Father,  mother,  sweetheart,  bride, 

Pictured  on  life's  mystic  river — 
Shadows  in  the  tide. 

And  the  years  keep  flowing  onward, 

Like  the  river's  undertow, 
And  there  come  to  us  old  dreamers 

Mirror'd  loves  of  Long  Ago, 
Like  the  wreaths  of  pine  and  myrtle,  > 

Rarefied  and  beautified, 
Jewels  of  the  days  departed, 

Shadows  in  the  tide. 

Blue  the  skies  that  arch  above  us, 

Pure  the  sunbeams  on  our  way, 
And  God's  peace  upon  the  landscapes, 

Holy  calm  of  Sabbath  Day; 
And  the  Old  Church  waits  our  coming, 

With  a  Mother's  love  and  pride, 
And  the  blessings  of  the  fathers — 

Auroras  in  the  tide ! 


AT  EVENING  TIME. 

I  stand  with  Paul  the  Aged, 

And  face  the  smiling  tomb ; 
I  see  no  lowering  shadows, 

I  see  no  gathering  gloom; 
There's  beauty  on  the  landscape, 

There's  gladness  in  the  sky; 
I  throw  the  challenge  down —  O  grave, 

Where  is  thy  victory! 

I  stand  with  our  Apostle, 
And  in  his  triumph  share — 

The  shores  of  time  receding, 
Eternity  draws  near ; 


Makemieland    AIemorials  203 

I  see  the  open  portals, 

I  hear  the  angels  sing; 
Unmoved  I  fling  the  gauntlet  down — 

O  death,  where  is  thy  sting ! 

I  stand  with  Paul  the  Victor 

And  gladly  spread  my  wings ; 
I  tread  the  bright  Third  Heavens 

And  witness  wondrous  things; 
I  trust  the  Great  Atonement, 

The  Lamb  that  once  was  slain, 
With  him,  for  me  to  live  is  Christ, 

For  me  to  die  is  gain ! 

I  stand  with  Paul  the  Aged; 

The  curse  has  spent  its  force ; 
I've   fought   the  fight,   I've  kept  the   faith, 

I'm  finishing  my  course;  . 

I  know  that  I  am  pardoned ; 

No  doubts  or  fears  oppress; 
Henceforth  I  see  laid  up  for  me  • 

The  crown  of  righteousness! 

I  stand  with  Christ,  the  Saviour, 

My   spirit  almost  home; 
I  wave  my  hand  to  loved  ones, 

Now  beckoning  me  to  come; 
Ere  long  the  tombs  shall  open 

Like  bursting  buds  in  Spring, 
O  gravi,  where  is  thy  victory, 

O  death,  where  is  thy  sting ! 


204  Makemieland  Memorials 


MARYLAND  AVIATOR. 

While  boosting  the  charms  of  the  land  of  our  birth 
The  fair  Eden  Shore  and  her  fame  and  her  worth, 
Whatever  the  strain  and  exalted  the  chord, 
Whatever  the  chorus  of  singer  and  bard, 
There's  a  break  in  the  song  and  a  fault  in  the  key 
Till  some  poet  sings  our  gentle  T.  B. 

The   Eastern  Shore  Counties  are  awfully  proud, 

Colonial  veins  full  of  richest  of  blood, 

Old  family  streaks  in  the  purest  of  lines, 

Of  indigo  blue  and  as  straight  as  the  pines, 

But  on  from  the  Flood  comes  the  sure  pedigree 

Of  the  "theme  of  my  song  with  'his  initials  T.  B. 

The  papers  are  speckled  with  the  letters  T.  R. 

A  hustler  in  peace  and  a  mascot  in  war, 

All  he  does,  all  he  says  they  lustily  laud 

And  at  his  sky-fliglits  they  clap  and  applaud, 

But  never  a  hero  on  the  land  or  the  sea 

More  at  home  in  the  skies  than  our  native  T.  B. 

The  Wrights  and  the  Zeppelins  grandly  aspire 
The  earth  to  abandon  and  mount  high  and  higher, 
The  chariot  of  Phoebus  outstrip  if  they're  able 
And    beat    in    their    antics    the   builders   of    Babel, 
But   none   of  their   soarings   so   far  and   so   free 
As  the  pinions  well-poised  of  our  graceful  T.   B. 

Far  back  when  a  youngster  I  watched  him  ascend 
And  envied  the  swoop  of  the  wings  of  our  friend, 
And  wished  that  like  him  I  could  circle  on  high 
And  mingle  at  will  with  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
A  harmless  old  fellow  and  example  to  me — 
For  he  minds  his  own  business,  the  guileless  T.  B. 


Makemieland  Memorials  205 

And  long  ere  the  Doctors  were  venting  their  flings 

At  microbes,  bacteria  and  germs  and  such  things, 

Our  friend,  sanitary,  with  diligent  care, 

Was  clearing  the  landscapes  and  cleansing  the  air; 

No  rare  antiseptic  that  ever  you  see 

More  certain  to  do  it  than  Doctor  T.  B. 

I  saw  the  old  fellow  along  with  his  spouse, 

Some  scent  in  the  backyard  or  smell  in  the  house, 

Alight  on  the  chimney  with  reverent  face 

And  spreading  his  pinions  and  saying  his  grace, 

Invoking  a  blessing  like  any  D.  D., 

With  mute  benedictions,  our  pious  T.  B. 

Full  many  a  secret  and  lots  of  our  slips 
He  sees — but  no  scandal  escapes  from  his  lips; 
The  slurs  and  the  slanders  by  gossips  begat, 
He  spurns  and  eschews  all  such  offal  as  that, 
Discreet,  Eastern   Shoreman   and  model   grandee, 
Philanthropic  reformer,  our  honest  T.  B. 

'Tis  good  to  be  born  with  a  bent  arid  a  craze 

That  find  the  poetic  wherever  it  plays. 

The  mink  in  the  marsh,  or  the  frog  in  his  lair, 

The  fair  and   the  beautiful  everywhere, 

The  curves  and  gyrations  o'er  our  cornfield  and  tree, 

And  duties  well  done  by  our  faithful  T.  B. 

They  rave  of  the  eagle  with  the  eye  on  the  sun 
They've  given  the  nightingale  sceptre  and  crown; 
I  tell  of  another,  a  son  of  this  Shore, 
Outrageously  slighted  by  poets  before, 
Unsung  and  unrhymed  till  now  championed  by  me, 
Our  kind  benefactor,  the  busy  T.  B. 

He  has  his  own  tastes — we  can't  understand  'em; 

De  gustibus  non,  yes,  non  disputandum ; 

But  much  to  his  credit,  let  me  candidly  say. 

He  never  writes  doggerel  such  as  mine  is  today; 

He  turns  up  his  nose  at  my  fine  minstrelsy — 

A   critic   disgusted — our   old   Turkey   B. 


